Variations on a Theme of Leroux
by HDKingsbury
Summary: Take the world of Gaston Leroux's novel, add equal parts Andrew Lloyd Weber and the author's imagination, sprinkle it with drama and romance, and you get Variations on a Theme of Leroux. Pairing is Erik & Christine.
1. Prologue

**Variations on a Theme of Leroux  
By HDKingsbury  
(c) 2006**

**Summary:**

_"The Opera ghost really existed. He was not, as was long believed, a creature of the imagination of the artists, the superstition of the managers, or a product of the absurd and impressionable brains of the young ladies of the ballet, their mothers, the box-keepers, the cloak-room attendants or the concierge. Yes, he existed in flesh and blood, although he assumed the complete appearance of a real phantom; that is to say, of a spectral shade."_

So wrote a journalist named Gaston Leroux, whose classic story of love, obsession and redemption was called _The Phantom of the Opera_. Phantom told of a genius - a man born so terribly deformed that he was shunned by society and took refuge beneath the Paris Opera - his obsession with the beautiful opera singer Christine, the heroic Raoul de Chagny, and the redemptive power of love. For nearly 100 years, this story has captivated the imagination of millions and has been transformed into beloved stage and screen productions. But…what if Leroux got the details wrong?

In _Variations on a Theme of Leroux_, we take this tale of Gothic romance and put it on its head. Within the pages of this book, the reader is presented with a story of romance, suspense and passion, but with a twist. It is the Phantom's story as it might truly have been.

**Copyright © 2006  
H D Kingsbury**

All rights reserved. No part of this work may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, or by any information storage and retrieval system -- available today or in the future -- without permission in writing from the author.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author's imaginations or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

**

* * *

**

Prologue

_1881, date unknown  
Somewhere outside of Paris_

The room was one of desolation and filth. Dirty, soiled straw was the only thing available for bedding, while a wooden bucket, unemptied for several days, served as a toilet. An untouched bowl of rancid food lay on the floor, its contents too nauseating for even a starving man to want to eat. The windowless room was dim and murky, its darkness broken only by the small amount of light that filtered in through the barred window in the heavy metal door. It was a place of hopelessness and misery, its inmate chained and beaten as if he were a wild beast.

Huddled on the cold, hard floor, shivering and in pain, lay Erik. Awareness was slowly returning to him, and with it came another wave of black despair. His eyes were swollen shut from the blows to his face, his breathing pained and labored from bruised and broken ribs, the metallic taste of blood in his mouth from lips split open and teeth loosened. He tried to move, to shift his weight in order to find a more comfortable position in which to lie, but even the slightest movement brought more spasms of pain – in his back, in his abdomen, in his chest. There didn't seem to be a part of his body that was without hurt. He knew he was suffering from shock, that this latest beating had nearly killed him. Voices were fading in and out…

"Oh! It looks more like an animal than a human being!" It was a woman speaking, her voice tittering with a pretense of fear.

"_Oui_, Madame. That's why we have to keep him chained like this. We wouldn't want him to attack you, would we, my pet?" That second voice was a man's, one Erik recognized immediately. It was the voice of his hated tormentor. No doubt the bastard had brought one of his lady-friends to this place, to impress her with his manly prowess by showing off the latest sideshow freak.

Erik tried to listen to their conversation, hoping one of them might drop some kind of hint as to where he was being held. Was he in a prison? A dungeon on some estate? An asylum? But the effort proved too great and once again he allowed the blackness to overwhelm him…

-0-0-0-

Consciousness slowly returned. He had no idea how long he had been insensible; it could have been minutes or hours…or days. The voices were gone, so Erik assumed he was once again alone. With nothing else to occupy his mind, he tried to estimate how long he had been in this place. Was it four days now? Five? A week? More? How many beatings had he endured? But no matter how hard he tried, his attempts at calculation were thwarted by his pain-clouded mind.

_Is this how my life ends, alone and miserable, the way it began?_

He unsuccessfully tried to quash such self-defeating thoughts.

_That way lies madness_, his inner voice kept telling him, urging him to grasp something else to focus on. _Christine! Yes, think of Christine_.

But thinking about Christine proved just as agonizing. He knew there was little chance he would ever see her again, that he would never again hold her in his arms or tell her how much he loved her. A painful reality was becoming clear – this was where he was going to die.

Hopelessness washed over him. Christine would never know what had happened, would never know that this was where he would breathe his last. He agonized over the thought that she might believe he had abandoned her.

_No_, his voice kept saying to him, prodding him to keep hope, _she would never believe that._ _She knows you too well. She knows something terrible has happened. Surely, she is out there now looking for you._

Out where, he wanted to scream back. If he had no idea where he was, what chance would Christine have of knowing? No, it was better to abandon such thoughts; they only emphasized the bleakness of his situation.

He curled up on the floor, the restraints his keepers had burdened him with biting into his flesh. He wanted to cry, but found that he could not. He was beyond tears, beyond hopelessness. There was nothing left but to give in to unconsciousness…and oblivion.

-0-0-0-

Revised July 15, 2006


	2. The Truth About Opera Ghosts

**Chapter One  
****The Truth about Opera Ghosts**

**-0-0-0-**

_November 1880  
__Several Months Earlier_

The young blond singer walked forcefully down the corridors of the opera house, eager to reach her dressing room and quickly shut the door behind her, to relish the heavenly peace of her own room. After the turmoil of the day, she thought, even the busy streets of Paris would seem like a haven of rest.

Entering the room, she quickly slammed the door and then stood inside for a moment as she regrouped her thoughts. She looked at her right hand; saw that it was still shaking as it gripped the doorknob, the knuckles white from the effort. Christine Daaé squeezed her eyes shut tight, took a deep breath, and emitted a sound that might have been something between a moan and a scream. Allowing the tension to slowly take leave of her body, she gently shook her head to clear the cobwebs. Heaving a second, softer sigh, she slowly released the doorknob, flexing her hand to restore circulation. Now that normalcy had returned she began making preparations for this evening's activities.

She walked across the windowless room and turned up the gaslights. A small smile played across her mouth as the lines on her face relaxed. Tonight she was joining Erik for supper, and after the tumultuous day she had just experienced, the pleasure of her maestro's company could not come soon enough.

Opening the closet door, she picked out and old but comfortable dress – very prim and demure as befitted a young woman little more than six months shy of her twentieth birthday, and quickly changed. Fastening the last of the buttons, she moved over to her dressing table and sat down to brush her hair. She glanced at the clock on the wall as she pinned up the last stray strands of her honey-colored hair. Either the clock was fast, or she was over an hour late. A little laugh of amusement escaped as she pondered the mood Erik would be in after waiting so long, but decided it wasn't worth brooding over. After all, there was nothing she could have done about what had happened today.

Changed and refreshed, she set about turning down the lights back down. A quick check of the door to her dressing room reassured her that it was locked. The last thing she needed was for a curious colleague to come in her room as she was returning from one of her nocturnal visits below the opera house.

More composed now that everything was in order, she grabbed her wrap and walked over to the full-length mirror on the back wall. She pressed the mechanism as Erik had taught her, causing the mirror to pivot around and open the doorway to the labyrinthine passages that led down into the bowels of the building. Once on the other side, she reached for the lantern that hung from a hook. Next to the lantern, tucked into a niche in the wall, was a box of matches. Both had been provided for by Erik, for those times when he wasn't available to escort her below. As she held the lighted match to the oil lamp that was the only illumination for her path, she couldn't help wonder why, with all his talents, Erik had never laid in a gas line along the passageways. After all, she mused, he had gas laid in his house, and that was five levels below.

Shrugging away the thought, Christine proceeded on her way, her mood improving with each step.

-0-0-0-

"You're late."

A man's voice challenged her in the dark, surprising her. She had been walking with her head down, carefully watching her steps while letting her mind wander as she made her way deeper towards the subterranean lake. Feeling foolish for letting his voice startle her, she looked up.

Her lantern spilled only a weak pool of light around her feet, and it took a moment for her vision to adjust to the permanent darkness that shrouded this place. Even with a lamp, the gloom of the lowest levels always took getting used to. Reorienting herself, she was able to make out the faint glimmer of a second lantern hanging from the bow of a small boat that bobbed every so slightly at the water's edge as its occupant stepped ashore.

Drawing closer, she could see him as he stood by the little dock, next to the boat – tall and lean, dressed in his customary black. To those above, he was a fleeting shadow rarely seen and known as the Phantom of the Opera or, more commonly, the Opera Ghost; but to Christine he was simply Erik – the reclusive, sometimes temperamental, man who covered the right half of his face with a mask, the man who for more than a year and a half had been her mentor, her friend, and her teacher. Though prone to moodiness, Erik was always the gentleman where she was concerned. Even though he sounded perturbed tonight, he extended his hand with courteous decorum to facilitate her getting into the boat. Seeing to it that she was comfortably seated, he stepped in himself, picked up the pole, and began ferrying the two of them to the other shore.

"Well?" demanded Erik, his rich voice breaking the cavernous silence. "What took so long?"

Christine was used to her teacher's seeming harshness, and wasn't intimidated. "I'm sorry, Erik. It couldn't be helped. A rather unpleasant incident occurred during rehearsal today. If you wouldn't mind, though, I'd rather not to talk about it just now." She continued to unwind as she allowed herself the luxury of enjoying the short journey to Erik's home.

She knew of the other entrances to the fifth level cellars, to Erik's domain; ones that did not involve revolving mirrors in dressing rooms or boat rides, but she preferred the fairy tale feeling she always experienced when coming this way. To her, taking the secret route from her dressing room down to the lowest levels below the opera house, and being conveyed across a black, glassy lake by her Angel, was like descending into a mysterious fantasy realm, where wonderful things could happen. As the boat glided with seeming effortlessness, Christine leaned back and swung an arm over the side, lazily dragging her fingers across the surface of the water, watching the tiny ripples reflect the lantern's light.

"If you aren't careful, some water creature could swim by and nip at those delicate fingers," Erik cautioned.

She looked up in time to catch an all-too-brief smile on his face, and then as quickly as it had come it was gone. In that moment, he had reminded her of a little boy who liked to play tricks on little girls.

After a few minutes, the ride was over. Erik stepped out and secured the boat to its moorings, then reached out and assisted Christine from the vessel. A few steps took them to the concealed entrance to his house. The barest glimmer of light picked out the outline of the door, so faint that if she hadn't been looking for it, she would have missed it altogether.

Undoing the lock, he opened the door for her. Stepping inside the familiar room, Christine couldn't help but be cheered by the glow of candle and gas light that greeted them. Behind her, Erik took his black cloak and the lightweight wrap she had worn and hung them both on the hooks by the door.

"What happened? You're upset." Now that they were inside, he noticed the troubled, tired look on her face. "Did something go wrong at rehearsal?" he inquired kindly, chagrined at his earlier brusque behavior. He directed her towards the comfortable confines of the room he referred to as his parlor, with its upholstered wingback chairs, cozy fireplace, piano and shelves of books. "Did Carlotta give you a difficult time again?"

Christine sighed. "No, it was nothing like that. There was a terrible accident today." When he said nothing, she gave him a puzzled look. The idea that Erik was unaware of what had transpired above ground was puzzling. Normally, there was little that happened within and around the confines of the Opera House of which he was not cognizant. "Surely, you heard about it?"

"No," he admitted, "I'm afraid I am not aware of anything that took place up there today. I was composing all afternoon, and only left my house to bring you here. I was becoming concerned when you were so late, and was about to come upstairs and look for you." He paused, and then asked, "Perhaps you would like a cup of tea?"

Christine nodded and took a seat in her favorite chair by the fireplace, while Erik excused himself and went to the kitchen where he prepared a soothing herbal tea. A few minute later, he returned bringing the teapot and a set of bone-china cups out on a tray. She made to get up and help, but he simply motioned for her to remain seated. Setting the tray on the small, lace-covered table that stood between the chairs, he presented Christine with a cup. After seeing to her need, he took his own seat next to her, the two of them sitting together like the friends that they were. After taking a few sips of the soothing brew, she felt better able to discuss her day.

"You remember Joseph Buquet, the senior scene shifter?"

Erik nodded that he did, recalling a 50-plus-year-old man with graying hair and a penchant for drink.

"He really was a decent sort of person," Christine continued, sounding as if she was trying to excuse the man for some unknown transgression.

Erik recollected the man a bit differently, but decided now might not be the time to bring up this up, as he noticed that she was speaking of Buquet in the past tense. _Yes,_ he thought, _something most definitely happened today. _He waited for her to continue.

She set her cup down and went on with her story. "I know he drank too much on his lunch breaks, but no one really complained about him. He was inoffensive and generally reliable. I mean, he never drank on the days there was a performance. I guess we all were willing to overlook his small, clumsy accidents." She paused thoughtfully before continuing. "But I guess there won't be anymore accidents..." She said, shuddering. "He must have had a bit too much at lunch today, and while he was making his way across the catwalk, he lost his balance." Her face grew pale and her voice softened as she relived the tragedy in her mind.

"As he fell, he became tangled up in the ropes. He strangled to death. We were all on the stage when it happened, the accident taking place in front of most of the company! Everyone was screaming and … and …" Her hands started shaking as she picked up her cup and took another sip of tea. She closed her eyes, composing herself before continuing. "Several of the stage hands tried to rescue poor Buquet, but they were unable to reach him in time. It was awful, seeing him hang there."

Erik said nothing, but simply nodded in understanding. It was better just to let Christine say what she needed to say.

"By then, everybody was in an uproar! It was absolute pandemonium. Everyone was pretty badly shaken. And Carlotta!" Christine rolled her eyes here, her features becoming animated once again at the mention of the difficult diva. "You should have seen how she carried on. One would think that poor Buquet hanged himself on purpose, to upset her rehearsal!" Her small snort of displeasure told Erik more than any words could what Christine thought of opera's prima donna!

"Someone finally had the good sense to send for the police. Thankfully, someone had taken the body down by the time they arrived. They interviewed everyone who was present, and even some of those who weren't. We were told that this was purely routine procedure, that it was done to rule out any suggestion of foul play. And that," she concluded, putting down her tea cup back down, "is why I was late."

"I am so sorry that you had to witness such unpleasantness," he said sympathetically. He wanted to put a gentle arm around her shoulder and give her a hug, or gently squeeze her hand in comfort, but was afraid that she would rebuff his efforts, would find his touch unpleasant. So he remained sitting quietly in his chair.

Christine looked over and smiled at him, watching the reflection from the fireplace play across his face. In this light, it was easy to ignore the tan piece of leather that fit over the right side of his face like a second skin. Not for the first time did she find herself wondering about this enigmatic friend of hers. "Thank you for listening, my friend, and for the tea. You are such a dear, and I'm feeling better already." Her usual cheerfulness returned, and she leaned and said, "You know, people are already hinting that Buquet's death is the work of the 'Opera Ghost.'"

Erik threw back his head and laughed. It was such a beautiful sound; Christine wished her teacher, who was usually so solemn, would laugh more often. "Let them think what they want. They will be less likely to bother me if they think I am some sort of vengeful specter."

She frowned. "I still don't like it."

"You don't like what?"

"People thinking you're a ghost. One of these days, someone's going to try and exorcise you from this place! Then you'll be sorry," she said, shaking a finger at him in mock anger.

Erik got up walked over to the fireplace and looked in the flames. "You needn't worry about me, my dear. I know how to take care of myself."

"I did receive some good news today. Before the accident, that is. I was informed that I shall be Carlotta's new understudy. I should even be getting some roles of my own."

Erik was pleased to hear this, but could not resist teasing her. "You know, of course, that this means you will have to have much more contact with her, and you know how volatile she can be."

"I'm certain I can handle it," she answered with confidence. "My foster mother taught me how to deal with difficult people, and besides, I've had plenty of practice with you," she arched her eyebrows back at him as Erik chuckled at her retort. "And, if not, I can always come to you for another cup of tea and sympathy."

"You are always welcome in my home, Christine. And your promotion is certainly well deserved. It is a long-sought improvement over the anonymity of the chorus. Your lessons and hard work are beginning to pay off, bringing you one step closer to achieving the breakthrough you so richly deserve."

"Any success I may enjoy is due solely to my teacher and Angel," she said, glowing under her teacher's praise.

"Well, now, are you ready for some supper?" Erik asked, leading the way to the small kitchen. On the table, there was a light supper was set out for two. By the time they finished eating and cleaning up, the clock was striking ten.

"Oh!" said Christine, startled at the lateness of the hour, "I had best be getting home. Accident or no, I still have rehearsals and practice tomorrow."

"Then I shall take you home."

"That's awfully sweet of you, but you know I only live a couple of blocks away. I can easily walk there myself."

"Nonsense," Erik insisted, "you have no idea what kind of predatory creatures might be stalking the streets at this hour."

Acquiescing to his wishes, she allowed Erik to help her on with her wrap, then watched as he donned his cloak and hat, pulling the brim down low to obscure the masked side of his face. They walked up the five levels to the Rue Scribe entrance of the opera house. Outside, he was able to hail a cab after only a few minutes wait, and rode with Christine to her apartment.

Getting out of the cab, she thanked him once again for the pleasant evening, and called to him from the doorstep as she prepared to enter her apartment. "Good night, Erik."

Waiting until she was safely inside, Erik instructed the cabbie to take him back to the opera house, whispering into the night air, "Good night, Christine."

-0-0-0-

* * *

revised July 15, 2006 


	3. Old Acquaintances Renewed

**Chapter 2  
****Old Acquaintances Renewed**

**-0-0-0-**

Christine arrived at the opera house the next morning, not in the best of moods. In spite of the pleasant time spent with her teacher the evening before, visions of Buquet's death had haunted her sleep. More than once, the tragedy replayed itself in her dreams, waking her several times.

On her way to rehearse with the other members of the chorus, she passed by Meg Giry holding court over her clique of friends in the _corps de ballet_. From her animated gestures, Christine knew the young ballerina was presenting her opinions about yesterday's accident. Christine wanted to avoid getting drawn into the discussion; the last thing she wanted to replay the incident, especially with Meg.

About the same age as Christine, Meg was the daughter of Mme. Giry, the widowed box keeper who claimed to have a special "relationship" with the Opera Ghost and who took special care of his seat in Box Five. Meg was her only daughter, the self-appointed leader of the ballet rats and mistress of gossip at the opera house, much of which she got from her mother. Congratulating herself too soon for managing to slip past the congregation of dancers, Christine heard Meg call to her.

"Christine! Christine Daaé! Have you heard the latest?" Meg rushed over to her, grabbing her by the arm and pulling the singer into her group.

"Let me guess," said Christine. "The Opera Ghost is responsible for Buquet's death."

Meg never really cared much for Christine, thinking her aloof and stuck up. She huffed indignantly, disliking the veiled challenge in the other's voice. "You don't have to be so sarcastic!" _Who do you think you are, _she wanted to say, _a diva? Ha! You're just one of many chorus girls!_

"Meg, we were all there. We all saw what happened. There was no ghost. No one saw anything other than poor Buquet walking precariously along the catwalk."

"Of course no one saw the Opera Ghost!" Meg snapped back, her short brown curls quivering as she shook her head in disgust at being contradicted. "He a ghost!"

"Meg, I really don't have time right now to talk. I'm supposed to be with the other members of the chorus," Christine excused herself, not wishing to continue the conversation.

As Christine left to join the other singers, Meg said to the members of her circle, "As if they would miss her. She thinks because she's been taking voice lessons that she's better than the rest of us." Casting a sidelong glance at Christine as she walked away, Meg said under her breath, "You're still nothing but a chorus girl, and with no patron, you've got no future here!" and, as a final insult, stuck out her tongue.

The organized chaos that was the opera house was in full gear. A new Russian-based opera, _Le Prince Masqué du Caucasus_, was to be premiered. Most folks were still jittery and distracted from yesterday's calamity, and the rehearsal was a disaster.

Carlotta, the resident diva better known for her temper and flamboyant lifestyle than her actual ability to sing, was more difficult than usual. She found fault with everyone and everything, from the libretto to the way the rehearsal was being conducted, to the scenery, to the way someone looked at her. The day crumbled to a halt when she stormed off the stage and locked herself in her dressing room. She threatened to tear up her contract and walk out, saying that she refused to remain one minute longer as long as the building was haunted by a murderous ghost. Everyone milled around for a while, waiting for instructions as to whether to continue rehearsal without Carlotta, or call it a day.

"Don't worry. She'll come back," said the man standing behind Christine, his tone suggesting that nothing would please him more than that the diva's absence would be permanent.

Christine turned around to see Anatole Garron, the company's resident baritone. At 42, she thought him to be quite attractive – in an older way. With his dark, wavy hair, neat, trim mustache, and eyes that sparkled with mischief, she was surprised that he was still single. Obviously, he enjoyed his bachelor's life. There were many among the company who consider Garron quite a lady's man. Ever since he had befriended her, the rumor mill had spewed out story after story of how he had taken a special liking to her, that the two were romantically "involved." But in fact, Anatole treated Christine as he would his younger sister, if he'd had a younger sister.

She flashed him a conspiratorial grin. "I'm afraid you're probably right," she agreed. "I don't suppose we could be that lucky."

Stepping closer, he leaned over to say, "So, have you heard the latest? The ghost that haunts this place is responsible for old Buquet's death."

"Not you, too! Next you'll be telling me that this ghost made Buquet drink too much wine!" she snapped, immediately regretting it when she saw Garron raise an eyebrow at the vehemence of her remarks. "I'm sorry, Anatole. I didn't mean to take it out on you like that."

"That's all right, Christine. I suppose I'm only the hundredth person to tell you that today."

While they were talking, word was given that rehearsal was officially cancelled for the rest of the day. Everyone was encouraged to go home, settle down, put yesterday's unfortunate accident behind them, and return tomorrow, ready to resume their work.

"Speaking of wine," Anatole said, "would you care to join me for lunch at the _Café de l'Opera_?"

Though the idea of lunch with the attractive baritone was tempting, Christine politely declined. Erik had been behaving oddly of late, especially if he saw her talking to some of the more attractive men in the company. She laughed to herself; it was as if her teacher was jealous! Rather than deal with one of his bad moods, Christine politely declined Anatole's offer and headed instead for her dressing room, contemplating whether she should just go home, or pay Erik a call.

As she walked down the corridor, she heard her name being called yet again. She was getting to feel like a string was attached to her, and that the people around her were taking turns pulling on that string, first one way, and then the other, without regard to how she felt.

"Christine Daaé, is that you?" It was a man's voice, but not one she recognized. It definitely did not belong to any of the members of the company. She turned around to see a handsome young man with short, neatly trimmed blond hair and mustache, and deep blue eyes walking towards her. He looked vaguely familiar, as if he were someone she should have known, like a name stuck on the tip of her tongue. The pleasant young man smiled, his fair complexion giving him an extremely youthful appearance, and for a moment, she thought he was the most handsome man she'd ever seen.

"You don't remember me, do you, Christine? Well, it has been a long time."

Still puzzling over his identity, she said, "I'm afraid you have the better of me, Monsieur. Have we met before?"

Making a deep bow, he said, "Mademoiselle, I'm the little boy who went into the sea to retrieve your scarf."

Eyes widening in recognition and delight, Christine rushed over to greet him. "Raoul de Chagny, it's no wonder I didn't recognize you. Look at how you've grown! We were just children that summer we played by the seaside, while Father played the violin." She looked him over from head to toe. "Besides, you're the last person I expected to see at the opera house. How is it that you are here?"

"I've just recently returned to Paris after a tour of duty at sea."

She smiled when she saw him puff out his chest out with pride. "At sea? Are you in the navy?"

Raoul nodded. "And I would like nothing more than to have lunch with an old friend and tell her all about my bold adventures. This is, if you would care to join me?"

One look at his brilliant smile, and Christine forgot her worries about Erik. After all, Raoul was a childhood playmate whom she had not seen in years. What could be the harm in that? And so she accepted his invitation, neither of them seeing the shadowy figure who watched as they left the building together.

* * *


	4. A Luncheon Date

**Chapter 3  
A Luncheon Date**

-0-0-0-

A pleasurable afternoon in the company of a friend not seen for many a year was just what Christine needed to improve her mood. With Paris enjoying an unusually warm fall, they went to a small outdoor café where they reminisced about that long-ago summer more than ten years ago. She had been seven, traveling the countryside around Brittany with her father, attending fairs and singing to the accompaniment of his violin. The de Chagnys were summering in the region, with nine-year-old Raoul in tow.

The two children were often found playing along the seashore, much to the amusement of their parents. Christine had been most impressed when her favorite scarf blew into the water and the brave, little playmate had dashed off to rescue it. But Raoul wasn't a little boy anymore. Far from it, he was quite a handsome young man. Eager to know more, she asked what he had been doing during the intervening years. She listened with fascination as Raoul told his adventures sailing around the world.

"Those days playing by the water must have left their mark on me. I learned that I love the sea, and enlisted in the navy. Now that I've returned, I'm eager to set sail again, and have signed up for the _Requin._"

"The _Requin?_ Is that another ship?" She laughed, imagining how silly her question must sound. "If it isn't something to do with music, I'm lost."

Raoul laughed. "Yes. Of course, it's a ship. The _Requin_ will be setting off on a rescue mission to search for any survivors of the _d'Artois_." He smirked at her. "That's another ship."

Christine gave him a little frown. She wasn't sure how to take his tone of voice. Was he laughing with her…or at her?

"I thought perhaps you had heard of the _d'Artois_. It set out on a polar expedition back in '87, and no one has heard from its crew for nearly three years."

"I see. So, when will you be leaving?"

"Oh, it won't be anytime soon. The _Requin_ won't be ready to leave for at least six months. It has to be specially fitted to withstand the polar cold. And then there are all the supplies that need to be laid in, a lot of very specialized equipment, provisions and such. It all takes time. So, while I'm between voyages, I've decided to accept my brother Philippe's invitation to stay here in Paris with him. As a matter of fact, that's how I came to be at the opera house today. Philippe is determined to take me under his wing and introduce me to the city' cultural delights. He says I need to broaden my interests." He winked at her when he said that.

Christine was uncomfortable with what he seemed to be insinuating, but brushed her feelings aside, assuming she was misinterpreting his meaning. She did, however, recall having seen Comte Philippe de Chagny on a number of occasions in the past. She remembered him as being unmarried, and almost twice his brother's age, a scion of one of France's oldest and noblest families. From what Raoul had described, it sounded as though his relationship with his older brother was more like that of a son to a father, or a nephew to an uncle. She had seen the Comte during his visits to the opera house, where he was usually found in the dancers' lounge in the company of "La Sorelli," the company's prima ballerina. The two had been an item for a number of years, an arrangement that apparently suited both.

"What about you?" the young vicomte asked. "What do you plan to do once you've had your fling on stage?"

"Singing on the stage of the Paris Opera is more than a fling to me, Raoul," she said, not pleased by his cavalier attitude towards her career. "It has long been a goal of mine." She explained that her life so far was a dream come true, With hard work, she hoped to one day to be a prima donna, a first lady of the stage.

"What does your father think of all this? I imagine he's quite pleased to see his little girl on the stage of the famous Paris Opera."

"My father passed away almost seven years ago. After that, I went to live with Professor Valérius and his wife. They both had known my father. After the professor died, Mamma Valérius and I came to live in Perros-Guirec. She always loved the stories my father used to tell of about our travels throughout Brittany, and believed it would be the perfect place for the two of us to live. She still lives there, and I'm always writing her letters, telling her about what is going on here in Paris."

"If your father's not around, who do you have helping you?" Raoul asked.

"I'm taking voice lessons from a great teacher to improve my art."

"That must be expensive. Perhaps I can be of assistance. Is your teacher someone I might have met at the opera house? Does he have a position there? Maybe I can meet with him, arrange for your lessons to be properly funded…"

She smiled nervously at his barrage of questions, concerned lest she reveal more than she should. Erik was very reclusive and at times eccentric, having little use for what he referred to as the outside world. In all the time she had known him, he had never offered any explanation as to why this should be. It didn't matter, though. Something terrible must have happened in his past, of that she was sure. On more than one occasion, he had told her in no uncertain terms that he wanted no one to know of his presence, that he trusted her to keep faith with him in the matter. The last thing she wanted to do was betray that trust.

"Thank you, Raoul, but there is no need for that. Everything is already taken care of," was all she could think to say, trying to look for a way to get off the subject of Erik. She looked down at her watch. "It has been wonderful talking with you and catching up on old times, but I didn't realize how late it was. I need to finish my tasks at the opera house."

"I don't understand, Christine. Rehearsal has been cancelled, most of the company sent home. I thought you and I could spend the afternoon together, rekindling old memories and maybe creating some new ones." He flashed her his most charming smile.

"There may be no rehearsal, but I still have some things to do and I need to return." She deliberately chose not to elaborate. If she did not elaborate, she would not feel as if she were lying, she told herself.

"Very well," Raoul gave in as he motioned to the waiter. "One moment, and I'll hail a cab for us."

Christine scoffed at the idea of riding such a short distance. "It's only a few blocks away, Raoul. And after that delicious meal, I think a walk would be more beneficial than riding in a cab."

"In that case," he said, offering her his arm. Christine couldn't refuse without appearing rude, and acquiesced.

"So, is there someone special in your life these days?" he asked, trying to make small talk as they strolled down the boulevard.

Her brow furrowed. For some reason, she had the oddest feeling that the question wasn't as innocent as it sounded.

Raoul noticed her hesitation. "I'm sorry, I'm not making myself very clear, am I," he laughed softly. "Let me rephrase that. Mademoiselle Daaé, may I have the pleasure of calling upon you? Perhaps take you out to dinner from time to time, or for walks in the park? Should I ask Mamma Valérius's permission?"

Christine stiffened imperceptibly, and stammered, "N-no, Raoul, I'm not seeing anyone. And I can't see anyone. I am under strict orders from my teacher to devote all of my time to my music."

"Ah," he said knowingly. "The mysterious voice teacher again. He insists that you devote _all_ of your spare time to music? Isn't that rather severe? Who is this great teacher that he can command such strict obedience?" Thinking he might have upset Christine with his questions, Raoul softened. After all, it had been more than ten years since they'd last met. It was like starting all over again. "I only wonder that anyone would even suggest that you become a slave to your art, and not allow you to spend time on yourself or with your friends."

"Raoul, I made the decision to obey those orders quite willingly. My teacher explained to me that either I could live a so-called normal life, or I can devote myself to music. I have chosen the latter. I'm orphaned and come from a poor family. Everything I am or ever hope to be, I shall have to earn through hard work and dedication. What I want to be is a great singer. My teacher can help me achieve this goal, and I have promised to follow his regimen. I know it seems rather strict to you, but not to me. This is what I want as well."

Raoul could think of other means for her to achieve her goal, means that he could easily provide, but wisely opted not to bring them up. Of course, she would shy away from such just now; after so many years apart, he needed to go slowly. He was already quite charmed by her, and if matters between then progressed as he hoped they would, there would be time enough for those suggestions later. This business of the music teacher though, this was another problem altogether. "Can you at least tell me who is he? What is his name?"

"I…I can't tell you, Raoul. That is one of the conditions of my lessons, to never reveal my maestro's name," she said haltingly. There was a moment of awkward silence between them.

"This sounds very strange, Christine. You cannot speak his name, and he won't allow you to go out with your friends. Is your maestro so unrelenting that he would not allow you to bend his rules even a little?"

Her discomfort continued to grow. She had never before mentioned Erik to anyone other than to her foster mother, and now she was sorry the subject had ever come up. _I should have made up a name, _she mentally berated herself. _Raoul wouldn't have known the difference._ Aloud she demurred, "No, Raoul. Please understand that this is as much my decision as his. And now, as much as I've enjoyed our afternoon together, I really must return to my work. Rehearsal may have been called off, but I still have to study my libretto."

They walked together to the entrance of the opera house, where Christine thanked Raoul profusely for the enjoyable afternoon, insisting that matters were not as dire as he seemed to believe. Raoul reluctantly accepted her admonitions, not happy with the situation, but willing to be patient – at least for the time being.

-0-0-0-

Christine returned to her dressing room to collect her things, not quite sure why lunch with Raoul should have left her feeling so ill at ease. She glanced around her room, to see if Erik might have been there. She was relieved to find no signs of her teacher, happy not to explain Raoul to him. Picking up her libretto, she left the room and was walking down the empty corridor when a familiar deep voice addressed her. She looked up and saw Erik standing in the shadows, arms across his chest, leaning casually, almost sulkily, against the wall.

"And who, may I ask, was that young whelp with whom you had lunch?"

Christine could see that he was angry, could hear his voice seething with a controlled fury. Taking a deep breath before answering, she said, "Hello Erik," in as matter-of-fact a voice as possible. "The young whelp, as you call him, is a friend from my childhood. His name is Raoul de Chagny."

The scowl never left Erik's face. "De Chagny? Any relation to the Comte de Chagny who's always hanging around backstage?"

"His younger brother."

"If he is such a long-time friend, why haven't I ever seen him here before?"

"Because he's only recently returned from sea."

"He's in the navy?" Erik asked incredulously. "He looks far too young and effeminate for that kind of life," he snorted.

"For your information, he is twenty-one years old," she responded defensively. "Erik, why are you acting like this?" she asked, the hurt evident in her voice.

Erik frowned. "Like what?"

"Like…this! Interrogating me as if I had committed some terrible misdeed." Her injured feelings threatened to manifest themselves into tears that she fought to keep back. She may have been young, but she had her pride, too, and she refused to show weakness in front of him.

Erik inhaled sharply as he realized how boorish he had been behaving. The last thing he ever wanted to do was cause Christine pain, yet that was exactly what he was doing. He dropped his arms to his sides and stood straighter, feeling ashamed at his unfounded accusations.

The two of them stood facing one another, neither one quite knowing what to say next. Christine finally broke the silence.

"There was nothing meant by this afternoon. I was having lunch with an old friend whom I hadn't seen in many years."

Erik held up his hand to stop her from saying more. "No. You needn't say anything further. Please…accept my apology." And before she could say another word, he turned and walked away, slipping into the shadows, disappearing as if he were indeed a ghost.

-0-0-0-


	5. Whatever It Is that Young Ladies Do

**Chapter 4  
****Whatever It Is that Young Ladies Do **

**

* * *

**

Over the next several days, life at the opera house resumed its customary frenzied pace with rehearsals picking up where they had been left off, and preparations commencing in earnest for the premier of the new opera. True to his word, Raoul de Chagny was often seen at the opera house, as his brother had suggested that he become a patron of the arts. During his visits, he repeatedly asked Christine out, and each time she politely declined.

In spite of the outward appearance of normalcy, nerves continued to manifest themselves as whispers of the Opera Ghost whirled around the halls and corridors of the building. Joseph Buquet's death grew from an unfortunate accident caused by too much drink into a gruesome murder committed by a vicious phantom. The management began taking such rumors seriously, and on several occasions consulted their new patron as to his opinion on the matter. Someone even went so far as to suggest having a priest come in and bless the building. Christine tried to ignore such gossip, but no matter how hard she tried, the rumors drew to her like iron to a magnet.

Young Meg Giry, always needing to be in the spotlight, was once again surrounded by her clique, insisting that yesterday she had seen the ghost lurking near Christine's dressing room. Christine scoffed at the idea; this was merely another of Meg's efforts to gain notoriety. The young ballerina was adamant, however, declaring she'd never seen such a horrifying face!

"It was probably a trick of the light and shadows," Christine said in an effort to minimize the effects Meg's story was having on her coterie of ballet rats.

Meg arched her eyebrows. "I know the difference between a man's form and a shadow, and this was most assuredly a man's. He was tall and lean, dressed all in black, wearing a floor-length opera cloak."

Christine shook her head. "How original, someone wearing an opera cloak at the opera! Meg, that description could fit any of the patrons who come here and hang around the lounges and dressing rooms, nearly all of whom wear black. Why are you so sure it was a ghost and not some would-be admirer lingering backstage?"

"I was suspicious of someone loitering so close to your room, Christine. We all know that you discourage such admirers, although if I had a vicomte sniffing around my skirts like a love-sick puppy, I wouldn't be so quick to turn him away" Meg retorted smugly. The other girls nodded, their heads bobbing like so many robins in a row. "So I called out to him, demanding that he identify himself and explain what he was doing there. That's when he turned around and glared at me," she said, "and I could see his eyes blazing like fire.

"And his face? What I could see of it was strange, almost featureless, like that of a ghost. Then he drew back his lips in a snarl, baring his teeth at me as if he were going to bite my head off! Oh, it was horrible!" She gave an exaggerated shudder for effect. "I knew right then and there that it was the Opera Ghost! I'm sure if I had looked hard enough, I would have seen Joseph Buquet's blood still staining his hands. And then…then he spoke to me."

"What did he say?" asked Little Jammes, one of the younger and more impressionable girls who were hanging on Meg's every word.

"Don't encourage her," Christine said disgustedly.

"He said that what he was doing there was none of my business, and then…he disappeared!"

"Disappeared? You mean he just vanished into the air?"

"Well…almost. I mean…he turned heel, his cloak swishing around him, and whooshed away. One moment he walking down the hall, and the next moment – he was gone!"

Christine excused herself as the others oohed and ahed at Meg's story. She had to give the other girl credit – she knew how to tell a story! Heading for her dressing room, she knew that in spite of the embellishments, there was more than a shred of truth behind the tale. Someone _had_ been standing near her dressing room, and that someone had been Erik. What had he wanted? Why had he not left word that he had been by to see her?

Since that afternoon with Raoul, the comfortable relationship that had previously existed between her and her teacher had been strained. Though Erik continued to work with her and give her voice lessons, his manner had been formal and cool. She couldn't understand why her having had lunch with an old friend should have affected him so. Surely, he couldn't be holding it against her for having spent a few hours with an old friend, could he? Erik knew that she was as devoted as ever to her art, to her music, didn't he? Hadn't she been spending every spare minute to perfect it? An unpleasant thought went through her mind. Might Raoul have been right the other day when he suggested that her maestro was _too_ strict?

-0-0-0-

Erik got up from the piano, closing it to indicate that their lesson was over. Walking over to where she stood, his hands clasped behind his back, he addressed her formally. "Christine, I believe I may have been working you too hard of late. It might prove advantageous if you were to take a couple of days off from our lessons."

Christine was sure her jaw had dropped as she watched him walk over to the fireplace where he stood and stared into its flames, not sure how to interpret this turnaround in his mood. Should she be pleased that her maestro had noticed her hard work, or upset that he apparently did not want her around? The tension between the two of them had become almost palpable, and she desperately wanted nothing more than a return to their former rapport. If she had known having lunch with Raoul was going to upset him so, she would never have done it. She hated herself for having dismissed Erik's rules so casually. Something had to be done to clear the air between them, so she took a deep breath and made what she hoped would be the first step towards repairing that rift.

"Erik, have I done something to offend you?"

He turned around to look at her, the visible part of his face betraying bewilderment. "Of course not," he answered emphatically. "What…why would you ever think such a thing?"

"It just seems that you've been unhappy with me for some reason." She paused, and then added, "Perhaps you would rather not give me lessons any more?"

Her words stunned Erik. Quit giving her lessons? Whatever was the girl thinking? Then he looked back over how he'd been behaving towards her this past week. It was no wonder the poor child thought he was angry with her. He had been acting like a complete ass.

"No, Christine," was all he could find to say. He was confused. What was it he actually wanted to say to her? Should he tell her how much he cherished the hours she spent with him? How, when she wasn't around, time seemed to drag on into eternity? Should he tell her that he had begun to notice how the lonely, awkward teenager who came to the opera house nearly two years ago was blossoming into a charming, beautiful young woman before his very eyes? Was it possible that what he had been feeling was jealousy? No, he told himself, it could not have been jealousy. Instead, he said only, "I'm afraid I've been preoccupied. I'm…I'm sorry if I have said or done anything to lead you to believe otherwise."

Christine could hear the sorrow in his voice, yet at the same time was relieved. At least he was talking _to_ her rather than _at_ her. "Do you really wish for me to forego my lessons?"

He tried to smile. "Only for a couple days. You are working hard, and it shows. But there can be such a thing as too much work. I am merely suggesting that you take some time off and relax. I understand the première of the Russian opera was a great success, and that there will be no formal rehearsals or practices for the next couple of days. This would provide you with an ideal opportunity to take a brief holiday."

"Have you any suggestions as to how I should spend my time?"

"Why, whatever it is that young ladies do," he said with a shrug. "Perhaps go shopping, or have lunch with a friend…"

Christine knew that he was extending an olive branch to her, and she smiled to let him know she accepted his offering. Suddenly she felt very bold. "And will you join me? You know I have few friends here in Paris. I'd visit my foster mother, but she lives in Perros..." Christine stopped, surprised at herself. What was she trying to do? Ask Erik out?

"Thank you…but…you know I am not comfortable around people…" Erik stammered, angry with himself for sounding like a tongue-tied schoolboy.

"What about a picnic?"

"In the park, in front of all those people?" he blustered.

"No," Christine beamed, "on the roof of the opera house."

* * *

Greetings, gentle readers.

I know you're out there because you show up in the number of hits on my story stats, and I wish to thank you for dropping by and reading "Variations." If you haven't done so already, won't you please take a moment and let me know what you think of the story? Comments and feedback are always welcome.

Sincerely,  
HDKingsbury


	6. Picnic on the Roof

**Author's Note: **

July 17 -- This is the real Chapter 5. Sorry about the mistake. -- HD

* * *

**Chapter 5  
Picnic on the Roof**

Arriving at the opera house, Raoul approached one of the women scrubbing the floor. "Where's Mlle. Daaé?" he demanded.

The woman shoved her mop back into its bucket and glared at him for interrupting her work. "Mam'selle who?" she asked, blowing her hair out of her eyes.

"Mlle. Daaé, one of the singers."

"Don't know no singers. I'm just one of the cleaning women. Them singers an' dancers don't associate with us, an' we don't associate with them."

"Never mind," he grumbled, disgusted as he walked away towards Christine's dressing room. This whole morning was turning into one giant fiasco. He had just come from her apartment. Knowing that there was nothing scheduled at the opera house, he had intended on interesting her in a day at the park. Those plans were spoiled when he discovered that she was not in. Not having any idea where she might be, but assuming whatever she was doing would have something to do with music, he decided to make the opera house his next stop. Unfortunately, that dolt of a charwoman was no help at all.

He wanted to talk to Christine, to ask her why she was always putting him off. Oh, she had been very polite, very courteous, but there was a note of diffidence in her demeanor towards him. True, there were plenty of other young ladies upon whom he could bestow his charms, but Christine was different. She was like a breath of country air, clean and unsullied by the city, and try as he might he could not get her out of his mind. Her innate grace and poise, though she would not have believed she had those qualities if you told her, would make her a perfect match for him.

Could it be that she felt ashamed of her background? If so, then he could put her mind at ease. All he had to do was point out his brother and La Sorelli. They enjoyed a relationship that was beneficial to both in spite the differences in their social standings. Or was it that damned teacher again, her maestro? The more he thought about it, the more he was certain the man was exercising some kind of unnatural hold over her. Telling her she shouldn't be receiving gentlemen callers? What kind of teacher was he, anyway?

With such thoughts running through his mind, he turned down the hall leading to the dressing rooms. The sound of a second set of footsteps caught his attention and he looked up in time to see Christine walking in the opposite direction, carrying what looked to be a picnic basket and blanket. But instead of going outside, perhaps to a park, she was heading in the direction of the stairs that led up to the roof! Curious as to what this could mean, and whom she was meeting – because it was obvious that she was meeting someone – he took it upon himself to find out. Keeping a safe distance between the two of them, he moved silent as a shadow, following her out onto the roof.

-0-0-0-

The weather remained unusually warm for early November. Winter would arrive soon enough, but for now, it would have been a sin not to be outside and enjoying that rare gift of nature – a perfect late fall day. Puffs of cotton dotted the azure blue sky while the sun shone with gentle warmth.

With basket and blanket in hand, Christine made her way up to the rooftop. The prospect of having a private picnic lunch with Erik excited her, though she couldn't put a finger on as to just why that was. They had agreed to meet beneath the statue of Apollo that looked down onto the street below, and there she spread out her blanket, then opened the basket and began setting out plates, filling them with the muffins, cheese, fruit and wine that were to be their meal. As she completed her task, a shadow fell across her. She smiled as she looked up to see Erik join her, relieved that he appeared more relaxed and at ease.

Getting up to look out over the cityscape, she turned to Erik. "It's absolutely beautiful up here, don't you agree? You can see for miles around up here. It's like a whole different world, a world of rooftops and spires and blue sky."

"Just don't step too close to the edge," he cautioned.

"Always the practical one, aren't you?" she teased. "Don't you think it to be the most romantic view of Paris?"

Unsure of what she was expecting him to say, Erik just gave her a crooked smile.

"Very well, then. Shall we eat?" she said, taking her place on the blanket, Erik sitting across from her. The two of them ate in companionable silence for the next few minutes.

"Would you like something to drink?" she asked, handing Erik the bottle of wine and a corkscrew she'd brought along for the occasion, and setting out two glasses.

Erik uncorked the bottle and poured them each a glass. Handing one to Christine, he said, "I owe you an apology."

"Whatever for?" she asked.

"For treating you the way I have this past week. I…I don't know what to say except…"

"Please, Erik. There's no need to apologize. I'm the one who disregarded the conditions of my lessons. Of course, you were quite upset with me. It won't happen again."

Erik shook his head, "I realize now that I was being unreasonable. I have no claim upon you, no right to tell you who you may see."

"No, Erik, that's not true. I willingly accepted your rules."

A silent nod of acknowledgement was his only response as the two of them sat nibbling at the cheese and fruit sitting on the plate in front of them. Noticing that both of their glasses were empty, Erik reached for the bottle and offered her more wine. As she sipped her drink, she glanced at him over the rim of her glass. The earlier ease on his face had disappeared, and he appeared troubled – his eyes were downcast and his brow deeply furrowed, as if deep in thought. Then his head lifted slightly, and he caught her looking at him, his expression all seriousness.

"In all the time that we have known each other, in all the hours we have spent together, you have never once asked about my mask. Surely you must be at least a little curious…?"

Unsure where this conversation was going, Christine thought carefully before answering. "I would be a liar if I said I have never been curious." She paused. "I assume you wear a mask to cover some unfortunate scar or disfigurement. I cannot imagine you wear it because you believe yourself to be too handsome."

She felt her stomach tie in knots, the warm, sunny afternoon having suddenly turned cold and icy.  
She waited for him to say something, anything, but Erik just sat there, staring at her, his eyes pleading for…what? Understanding? Compassion? Cautiously, she tried to find the right words to say.

"During the time that we have known each other, I have noticed from subtle gestures and occasional remarks you have made that whatever is wrong with your face troubles you greatly. I…," she halted, afraid she might have already said too much, but it was too late to stop now. "You are a dear friend, and I care for you too much to wish to cause you more misery over something that already distresses you. So…," she lowered her head slightly, looking at the now-empty wine glass she was clasping nervously in her hands, "…I have contented myself to wait for such a time when you would let me know that the subject may be broached." When she looked back up, she saw that Erik looked every bit as nervous as she.

He nodded slowly, as if pondering her words. "You've been very patient with me, even when my manners have been less than…than I would have wanted them to be, when I've made unreasonable demands upon your time and how you spend it. You've accepted me as I am, never questioning. I feel I owe you the truth. If you wish to end our friendship afterwards, I'll understand."

Drawing in a deep breath, he exhaled slowly as he collected his thoughts. Then he closed his eyes and reached behind his head, undoing the ties that secured the mask in place. Removing it, he set the flesh-colored piece of leather down on the blanket between them. Fear kept him from looking directly at Christine. Instead he kept his eyes lowered, looking at the thing that reminded him of what he could never have, what he could never be. Any moment now he expected to hear Christine gasp or scream, but as the seconds passed and nothing of the sort took place, he cautiously looked up to find Christine staring at him, not in horror, but with concern and a touch of curiosity on her face.

She looked hard and deep at his face, remembering once as a child seeing a man whose face reminded her of this one, a man who had been horribly maimed and scarred in a boiler explosion. Some of the flesh was mottled and red, while other parts were pale and shiny like scar tissue. Some of it was misshapen – his right eye pulled down at the side, his nose looking as if half of it had been smashed in. Gazing at the hairline on the right side of his face, she realized that he had also removed what apparently was a hair piece, as most of that side of his head was bare and covered only sparsely with hair, as if it couldn't grow on the misshapen flesh.

Finding his voice at last, he croaked out the words, "I would understand if you would prefer not to see me anymore." He squeezed his eyes closed tightly, trying to maintain his composure and keep the welling tears from spilling down his face. His heart pounded loudly, drowning out all other sounds.

Christine let out a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding. It all made sense now. From the pained expression on his face to the words he had spoken, she knew he was expecting her to turn away from him in disgust, but that was something she could never do. Why should this face change the way she felt towards the man who for nearly two years had been her friend, her mentor, her confidant and teacher, this man who had come to mean so much to her. No, she couldn't turn away from him. Not now, not with all they had shared, not over something like this. In that moment, all she wanted to do was hold him in her arms and comfort him, to let him know that terrible as his face may be, it did not change anything between them.

"Why should I want to do that?" she spoke softly. "Because of your face?"

He opened his eyes and looked into her face, searching hard to find signs of fear, or revulsion, or disgust, seeing instead something that looked like…could it be something akin to love? His head was swimming; he couldn't believe that this was happening. He had wanted her acceptance. Over and over, he had played out the scenario in his mind. Showing her his true face was something he had dreaded, but at the same time knew it was something he had to do. The longer he put off the inevitable, the greater an impediment it would become between them.

He had believed her capable of understanding, but he was so used to rejection and humiliation that no matter how much he trusted Christine, he had feared he would in the end receive more of the same. There had been so many disappointments in his life already, he didn't know how he could face another, yet he had to try.

He watched her as she reached out to touch his face, her gentle fingers caressing the misshapen flesh. Erik sat perfectly still, almost frozen, as Christine softly ran her fingers along the ruined side of his face and across the bare side of his head. "Does it hurt?" she asked quietly, her eyes trying to memorize every detail.

"No."

"Were you injured? Was there some sort of accident? I'm sorry. I'm asking too many questions."

"No, Christine, it's all right. Please, ask your questions. I was…I was born this way."

Tentatively Erik reached up and took her exploring hand in his and held it, his eyes looking deep into hers. Emboldened by her actions he whispered, "Christine, is it possible to hope that…" He could not go on, his throat constricting as his vision became blurry. Swallowing hard, he tried again. "Is it possible that you might care for me?" he pleaded.

And then the most astounding thing happened. Christine smiled at him, her eyes sparkling with unshed tears of her own. Bending closer, she held the back of his head with her free hand and kissed him gently on the cheek, on the damaged cheek.

"I think I've always loved you, Erik. I just didn't know it," she whispered into his ear, and then buried her face into his shoulder as he wrapped his arms around her.

-0-0-0-

Raoul de Chagny seethed as he watched. He had come to the opera house, seeking out Christine, wanting the answers to some questions. What he had found was more than he bargained for…

He had observed her as she walked towards the statue of Apollo and spread out her blanket, preparing for her picnic. She had been alone then, but it was apparent that would not be the case for long. Keeping close to the shadows of the upper façade of the building, he had found a nook in which to hide, one that would also provide him with a view of Apollo and the picnic at the god's feet.

He had not been disappointed when a few minutes later a man step out onto the roof and joined her. Pressing himself deeper into the shadows, Raoul eagerly looked towards the man as he walked by. In particular, he wanted to see his face, to know his rival's identity. At first, he couldn't figure out why the man's face looked odd. Then he realized what it was – half of it was covered by a mask of some kind. From a distance, it was not obvious at first because the coloring of the mask blended in with the flesh tones of the rest of the man's face. Raoul had hoped for a better look, but when the masked man sat down with Christine, he kept his back to Raoul, frustrating the vicomte.

Who could this person be, Raoul wondered, and why did he keep half of his face covered. Was he scarred? A war veteran? As he watched, the two talked and Raoul realized that while his post provided him with a good view of the picnic, it was too far away to hear what was being said. He remained still and silent as one of the statues, enthralled by the tableau playing itself out in front of him. When he saw the man remove his mask, his curiosity grew more intense. It was all he could do to keep himself from dashing out and demanding to know what was going on.

When the two embraced, however, Raoul could stand it no longer. He wanted to strike out at them both, but knew this was neither the time nor the place. He slunk away, the two lovers oblivious to his presence, and headed back down and out of the building. More than ever, he was convinced that Christine was playing him for a fool!

-0-0-0-


	7. Tell Me About Yourself

**Chapter 6  
Tell Me about Yourself**

-0-0-0-

"Tell me about yourself," Christine asked Erik as the remains of their picnic lunch laid scattered upon the blanket. They sat together at Apollo's feet, basking in the warm autumnal sun, listening to the birds twittering in the trees below. She rested her head against his broad shoulders, amazed at how their bodies seemed to fit so perfectly. Sitting here with him, his arms around her, felt right and natural. So this is what it feels like to be in love, she thought dreamily.

"There's not much to tell. I was born; I grew up, traveled…" His voice drifted off into nothingness.

"Surely there is more to the story than that."

"Before I met you, Christine, life had no meaning for me. Nothing held any interest for me. I existed, nothing more."

"But that can't be completely true. Something must have caught your interest, to make you seek me out."

He nodded, not sure whether it was the wine they had shared or simply Christine's guileless acceptance that was loosening his tongue. "I think that what drew me to you that first time was the loneliness I heard in your cries at night. They reminded me of a little boy I once knew."

"You?" she asked, remembering the pain she had seen in his eyes earlier.

"Yes." Erik hesitated. "I suppose in looking back, it must have seemed odd for a man my age to have taken an interest in a young girl like you…"

"I wasn't that young!" she said in mock indignation. "I was almost 18. Many girls are married by that age. Besides, you're not that old." She looked up at him, unable to resist the urge to tease him just a little, to try to make him smile. "Are you?" She pretended to inspect his face for signs of aging. "You don't look old to me," she reassured him. "Besides, Mamma Valérius always told me it's better to be an older man's sweetheart than a young man's slave."

Erik laughed. Christine loved the how that sound felt when her ear rested against his chest. "I must meet your foster mother one of these days, Christine," he said, combing his fingers lightly through her hair. "It is true that I am older than you. I imagine the phrase 'old enough to be your father' might apply, though I confess that my feelings for you right now are anything but fatherly." He bent down, brushing his lips against hers.

"Good," said Christine, returning his kiss as she snuggled closer into the comfort of his embrace, "because I'm not exactly feeling daughterly. As a matter of fact, I'm finding I rather like this…," she said, relishing the sensations these newfound emotions brought with them, and kissed him again. "But you haven't finished your story."

Erik shook his head. "It's not a happy story, Christine."

She nodded, understanding that his past was a painful subject, one that was seldom revisited, and then only when absolutely necessary. "If you'd rather not, I'll understand," she said.

"No, you have a right to know. I was born, I believe, about 1841 or '42, in a small village near Rouen. I'm sorry; I don't have an exact date to give you." He halted, then proceeded. "My father was a master stone mason. He…he was difficult to live with."

She could feel the tension in his body when he mentioned his father, and taking hold of one of his hands, squeezed it to reassure him. "And your mother?" she asked softly, turning her head to look at his face, and saw Erik fighting back tears. "Please, Erik, don't. You don't have to talk about it…"

He shook his head and smiled sadly. "I'm fine, it's…it's just that…I have never spoken of these things to anyone else." Taking a deep breath, he continued, "My father was very proud of his position within the community, and I…I was a great disappointment. I made him the laughing stock of the village, and he never allowed either me or my mother to forget that. He turned to drink, and when under its influence often became harsh. He…he would take one look at me, and it would send him into a rage. He would become…violent…" He stopped speaking, locked in the memories of the past.

"Did he ever hurt you or your mother?" Christine asked, afraid she already knew the answer.

Erik nodded sadly. "My mother insisted that I wear a mask at all times. She must have hoped that if my father couldn't see my face, he would be less prone to violence. She was always distant and aloof towards me. Looking back, I now realize that she was afraid to show me any affection out of fear of my father. I don't think it would have mattered, though. Nothing would have changed my father's opinion of me. I was a failure. My face mocked him, was God's curse upon him. As I grew older, the situation at home became untenable. I had to leave. So one day I made up my mind to run away."

"How old were you when you left home?"

"I'm not sure, perhaps ten. When I left, I never wanted to see either of them again. But later, when I'd returned to France after living abroad for many years, I was overcome with curiosity. I made a few discreet inquiries, and learned that within a year of my leaving, my mother had passed away. The cause of death was said to be an accident, that she'd fallen down the stairs of her house. My father was the one who found her unconscious on the floor. Apparently, she never woke up, so no one knows what really happened. Within a couple of years my father had drunk himself to death."

Neither said anything more, and for several minutes sat together in mutual silence. "And what about you?" he finally said. "Please, tell me something pleasant."

She turned her head to gaze at Erik, took a hand and caressed his face, the side he kept hidden from the world, and kissed it. "Very well, then, allow me to tell you a story.

"Once upon a time," she began, using the time-honored traditions of story-telling her father used to use when he told his daughter the dark stories of the North and the tales of the Angel of Music, "in a small village near Upsala, there was a farmer who lived there with his family, cultivating the land during the week and singing in church on Sunday. This farmer had a little daughter whom he taught to decipher the musical alphabet well before she could read.

"Father Daaé was, without perhaps realizing it, a great musician. He played the violin and was considered the best itinerant fiddler in all Scandinavia. His reputation spread far and wide, and it was always to him that people applied for the dance music at weddings and feasts."

"That must have been pleasant," said Erik, trying to imagine a life of such carefree abandon, surrounded always by music. "What a wonderful way to have lived."

"Yes, it was. But there is a sad part to the story, too. You see, Mother Daaé was disabled, and she died when her daughter had just turned six. Immediately, her father, who loved nothing but his daughter and his music, sold his plot of land and went off to seek his fortune in Upsala, finding only misfortune instead.

"So he returned to the countryside, wandering from fair to fair, even traveling so far as Brittany, playing his Scandinavian melodies, while his daughter, who loved him dearly and never left him, listened in ecstasy or sang along with him. Then one day, at the Limby Fair, Professor Valérius – a very great and learned man, I might add – heard the two of them and subsequently took them both to Göteborg. He claimed that Father Daaé was the best violinist in the world, and that his daughter had the makings of a great artist."

"An astute judge of talent, I'm sure."

Christine nodded and continued her story. "He provided for the education and musical instruction of the child, and complimented her for her rapid progress. It wasn't long after that, though, that Father Daaé took ill. It was a wasting illness of the lungs.

"When Father died, Professor Valérius and his wife took me in and raised me as if I were their daughter, as they'd never had any children of their own. A few years later, Professor Valérius died, too, leaving Mamma Valérius and me on our own. Professor Valérius had a small savings, and Mamma took the money, sold the house in Upsala, and brought me with her to live in France."

"Why France?"

"Because I always wanted to sing on the stage of the world famous Paris Opera, and I couldn't very well do that in Sweden, could I? Besides, I think the Angel of Music wanted a certain someone to hear me sing."

-0-0-0-

* * *

**Author's Note:** If you didn't recognize it, Christine's story is taken almost word for word from Gaston Leroux's wonderful novel. 


	8. Brotherly Advice

**Author's Note:**

My apologies to everyone. I had not realized that I somehow got my chapters numbered incorrectly when uploading, and accidentally left out the REAL chapter 5. I've got it all corrected, so if you'd like to go back and see what you missed, I believe I have everything straightened out now.

- HDKingsbury

* * *

**Chapter 7  
Brotherly Advice **

-0-0-0-

Raoul de Chagny paced back and forth in the parlor of his brother's apartment, restless as a caged lion. Philippe had already left for the day, and was to meet him in town for lunch. Walking over to the window, Raoul looked down on the rain-soaked streets below. He was angry and tired, and nature seemed to be matching his sour mood, with the day starting out gray and overcast, and deteriorating into a blustery autumnal gale. And it was all because of Christine Daaé.

Raoul had agreed to meet Philippe for lunch at the _Café Anglais_, on the _Boulevard des Italiens_ at the corner of the _rue Marivaux_, but was beginning to wonder if his brother was the right person to talk to about what was troubling him. For the first time in his life, he was feeling the bitter pangs of jealousy.

Try as hard as he might, he could not get her out of his mind. She was becoming an obsession with him. He didn't know what to do next to try and win her affections. He had demonstrated that her singing on the stage did not bother him, did he not? Besides, if she became the great diva that she hoped to be, would he not be the envy of other men, to have her seen at his side? She was a pretty _jeune fille_, after all, whose physical attributes were meant to be shown off and admired.

Again and again, he wanted to kick himself for not recognizing the true source of the problem sooner – that damned teacher of hers! That humbug was Christine's mysterious lover, and he was undoubtedly filling her head with all manner of nonsense. Devote her entire life to music? What kind of twaddle was that! The hypocrite wanted to keep her for himself, that's what that was all about!

Raoul knew he had to save Christine from making a terrible mistake, and was determined to do something about it once and for all. The key then was to learn the identity of her maestro. Since Christine refused to divulge his name, perhaps Raoul could find someone else who would. Surely, she must have talked or written to her foster mother about the man.

So yesterday, he had taken the bit between the teeth and took the train to Perros-Guirec. There he paid a call upon her foster mother and demanded some answers. It had been late into the evening when he arrived at the small coastal town. Getting directions from one of the locals, he had rented a cart at the station and driven to the small house that stood beyond the outskirts of the city, secluded and out of the way. He had entreated with Mme. Valérius, assuring her that he was only interested in Christine's well being, but the old woman had proved every bit as stubborn and difficult as her foster daughter!

"M. le Vicomte, if she loves that man, it's not any of your business," was all she would tell him before bidding him a brusque good-night.

All the way back from Perros he'd sat on the train, fuming at the old woman's words. Now he was tired and irritable, and his head ached. Hearing the chiming of the hour, Raoul grabbed his hat, coat and walking stick, and headed out the door.

-0-0-0-

"That will be all," said Comte Philippe de Chagny as he dismissed the waiter with a languid wave of his hand. "And be sure that door is shut when you go. I do not wish for our privacy to be disturbed."

"Oui, M. le Comte," was all that the very-proper waiter said as he left the private dining room, the door latch clicking softly behind him.

"Now, baby brother, pray tell me what has happened to put you in such a state of distress," Philippe cajoled.

Raoul simply sat in his chair, his face down-turned, the fork in his right hand toying disinterestedly with the food on his plate.

"Are you going to sit here all day and play with your food, Raoul? Or are you going to tell me what is bothering you?"

Raoul looked up and shot his brother a half-smile. "Sorry, Philippe. I'm not sure where to start."

"The beginning is usually a good place," said Philippe. "This has something to do with that singer…what's her name? Christine Daaé? You've only just met her, Raoul. How is it possible that she's got you wrapped around you little finger already?" Philippe, confirmed bachelor and man of the world that he was, chuckled at the thought of his little brother caught in the passionate throes of love.

"Yes, it has to do with Christine; and no, I didn't just meet her. We played together as children. Surely you remember those seaside trips to Brittany, when we met that violinist from Sweden and his daughter?"

Philippe shrugged. With nearly twenty years' difference in their ages, their points of view on events were often radically different.

"I remember a scruffy-looking fiddle player," teased Philippe. When he saw Raoul glaring at him, he decided to ease up. "Seriously, brother, what is the matter?"

"I'm worried about Christine. I believe she is under the influence of a fanatical teacher who doesn't allow her to have friends and who insists that she devote her entire life to music."

"And why should it make any difference to you who she wishes to spend her time with?"

"Because I love her!" protested Raoul.

"Pah!" Philippe scoffed. "You mean you want to bed her, and so far she's turned you down."

"No," said Raoul, feeling ashamed because there was more than a small ring of truth in what Philippe was saying, "I love her. I want to court her, to marry her…"

Philippe scowled at his brother, his face as stern as an angry schoolmaster's. Drawing upon his aristocratic bearing, he set about clarifying matters. "No, you will not marry her. You are a Chagny, the blood of one of the oldest and noblest families in France flows in your veins, boy. Your ancestors include royalty, damn it! You will not pollute it by marrying the daughter of an impoverished fiddle player. Take her to bed if you will, make her your mistress, but marry her you will not."

"But I love her…"

"You call the lisping of two children love? You have yet to learn the meaning of the word. Playing at the ocean-side when the two of you were running around in diapers hardly counts as the start of a life-long passion! You're a virile young man. Of course, she excites your blood. You wouldn't be a Chagny otherwise. But you cannot marry her, so get that notion out of your head."

Raoul looked back down at his plate, his lower lip sticking out in a slight pout. At that moment, in spite of his having spent nearly a year at sea, Philippe saw that his brother was still rather naïve and more than a little spoiled. "None of this changes the fact that she's being unduly influenced by this…this ghost! I cannot even get her to commit to going out with me for a bite of supper. Her maestro," Raoul almost choked on the word, refusing to give up his sulk, "won't allow it!"

Philippe sat back, his hands curling softly around the arms of his chair as he leaned his head against its back. "Then what you need to do is eliminate your competition," suggested the world-weary Comte with a jaded smile.

* * *

**Author's Notes: **

It's not really important, but as I was writing this chapter, I kept picturing Philippe de Chagny as being much like that most elegant cad, George Sanders, in "The Picture of Dorian Gray."

And since I love including small historical notes, here's one about the _Café Anglais_, a real place --

The most illustrious of all 19th-century Paris restaurants was the Café Anglais, on the Boulevard des Italiens at the corner of the rue Marivaux, where the chef, Adolphe Dugléré, created classic dishes such as sole Dugléré (filets poached with tomatoes and served with a cream sauce having a fish stock base) and the famous sorrel soup potage Germiny.

On June 7, 1867, the Café Anglais served the now-famous "Three Emperors Dinner" for three royal guests visiting Paris to attend the Universal Exposition. The diners included Tsar Alexander II of Russia; his son the tsarevich (later the Tsar Alexander III); and King William I of Prussia, later the first emperor of Germany. The meal included soufflés with creamed chicken (_à la reine_), Venetian _fillets of sole_, escalloped turbot, chicken _à la portugaise_ (cooked with tomatoes, onions, and garlic), lobster _à la parisienne_ (round, flat medallions glazed with a gelatin-mayonnaise mixture and elaborately decorated), ducklings _à la rouennaise_ (the carcasses stuffed with liver and pressed, presented on a platter with boned slices of the breast and the grilled legs, and served with a red wine sauce containing pureed liver), ortolans (small game birds) on toast, and eight different wines.

Although the Café Anglais closed in 1913, when the building was demolished, the table setting for this dinner is now displayed at La Tour d'Argent, the oldest surviving restaurant in Paris. Source: Encyclopædia Britannica.


	9. Where Do We Go From Here

**Chapter 8  
****Where Do We Go From Here**

**-0-0-0-**

Christine finished her morning mug of hot cocoa as she looked out her apartment window, watching the first snow flurries of winter drift lazily from the leaden December sky, mulling over how her life was changing. She glanced down at her pendant watch, checking the time. Even though it was still dark outside – dawn coming later as the days grew shorter – the watch showed her that it was time to be leaving once more for the opera house. A quick look around the cozy apartment assured her she had everything in order and that no gas lights were left on. Being La Carlotta's understudy made her appreciate how fortunate she was to have either Erik's house or her own apartment to come home to at the end of a day. She could understand the lure of having one's own private sanctum, such as the one Erik had built for himself beneath the opera house.

During her walk to the opera house, she mused on the events of the past few weeks. When it was first announced that she would become Carlotta's understudy, the aging diva had made it clear from the start that she neither wanted, nor appreciated having, one. Such an attitude perplexed Christine. The only conclusion she could reach was that artistic talent did not necessarily include common sense; common sense that said even the hardiest person could come down with a chest cold, or that the greatest diva could slip and turn an ankle. What it really came down to was that Carlotta saw Christine as her competition, something the older woman could not brook.

In spite of the temptation on some days to scream back at the woman, Christine chose to quietly tolerate whatever Carlotta threw her way. She wanted to prove that she was worthy of the promotion, and allowed her talent to speak for itself. Besides, her perception these days was colored these days by love. Looking at the world while in such a euphoric state, she was willing to forgive Carlotta almost anything. Not for the first time did Christine ponder the possibility that Carlotta engaged in such outrageous behavior because, other than the stage, her life was empty and cold.

-0-0-0-

"She's got the personality of a snake on a hot rock."

It was all Christine could do to choke back the giggles that threatened to erupt over Anatole's latest snipe at Carlotta. They stood next to each other, hiding their whispers behind their hands like conspirators, watching the exhibition before them. Carlotta and the tenor, Signor Pietro Sospenzoi, were going through their paces, which meant the diva was doing everything humanly possible to make the poor man's life miserable.

"I'll bet when his contract's up, Sospenzo will disappear from Paris for greener – and more peaceful – pastures," Christine said in a low voice back to Anatole.

"That would not surprise me. So, care to wager as to what will happen next?"

"Oh, it will be the usual. Carlotta will 'rehearse' for about forty-five minutes, think of some excuse to walk off so she can go shopping or dining with friends, and 'allow' me to fill in for her."

"_You!" _a voice screeched in their direction. They looked around, pretending to look to see who Carlotta was addressing.

"Yes, you two! You're interfering with my rehearsal!" Carlotta hissed at them. "Anatole Garron, you should know better. And _you_, Mademoiselle Understudy, since you have so much time on your hands that you can chit-chat while I'm trying to sing, you can take my place. Now!" Throwing her libretto into the air, the fiery diva stormed off the stage, followed by a chorus of sighs heaved in relief.

An impish smirk covered Anatole's face as he playfully pushed Christine to the fore. "I guess that means you're on, now." Christine rolled her eyes and laughed softly, then walked over to pick up the pages strewn across the floor. Glancing over to the director, she waited for his signal as to what he wanted to do next.

The flustered little man made no secret of the fact that he was pleased Carlotta was gone, that he preferred to work with Christine. On more than one occasion, he had made a point of praising Christine's voice and hard work before the other members of the company, complimenting her on how much she had improved over recent months. He also knew that with Christine, rehearsal would proceed much more smoothly. As a small victory celebration, he suggested that everyone take a ten-minute break. Walking and chatting with Anatole as the two of them strolled off the stage for a quiet corner in which to talk, Christine was unhappy to hear an all-too-familiar voice.

"It is shameful, the way they allow Carlotta to treat you, Christine. If you wish, I shall have a talk with the managers. I will suggest that they rein in Mme. Carlotta. As a patron of this fine establishment, I do have some influence here."

"Good morning, _Monsieur le Vicomte_," Anatole said critically, unsuccessfully trying to make a point of the fact that de Chagny was interrupting a private conversation.

"Oh, good morning, Garron," Raoul replied in an offhand manner, taking notice for the first time that Christine was not alone. "As I was saying," the young man persisted, turning his attention back to Christine, "you should allow me to intercede on your behalf."

"Frankly, I think Mlle. Daaé has been handling Carlotta quite well," the baritone inserted, ignoring Raoul's glare.

Christine quietly sighed, wishing Raoul would disappear. "Thank you, Raoul, but that will not be necessary. If I am going to succeed on the stage, I have to learn how to handle these situations on my own. I doubt that Carlotta is the only temperamental singer I shall run into over the course of my career."

Raoul acknowledged her decision with a curt nod. "Very well, if that is what you wish. Remember though, Christine, if you find that matters become too difficult, I shall be there to assist," he said, and strode off in the direction of Meg Giry and the members of the _corps de ballet_.

"Now, what do you suppose he's really up to?" Garron said as he watched Raoul walk away.

Christine shook her head. "I wish I knew."

-0-0-0-

The never-ending day had finally come to an end, and Christine was on her way to her dressing room to pick up her cloak and head downstairs to meet Erik. Now that the two of them had professed their feelings for one another, she found herself spending even more of her time in his company, often at his house by the underground lake, before returning to her own flat. Though she continued to insist that it wasn't necessary, he would never permit her to return to her apartment on her own, always escorting her there at the end of each evening.

"You've been handling Carlotta's temper tantrums quite well. You are to be commended."

Christine looked up. His appearance in the hallway was an unexpected but most pleasant surprise, and she couldn't keep the silly grin from spreading across her face as Erik stepped out from the shadows, took her hands in his and brushed them with a kiss. It was obvious that he had been as eager to see her, as she was to see him.

Not letting go of his hands, she stood on her toes to return his kiss with one of her own – on his lips. "That may be," she said, welcoming his embrace, "but I still wouldn't mind if a piece of scenery dropped on her head one of these days."

Erik laughed as he accompanied her back to her room and the passage below. "That can be arranged," he said.

Christine watched the flames lick the logs in the fireplace as she sat on the floor next to Erik's chair, her head resting on his lap. With supper over, the two of them had retired to the parlor, to spend a quiet hour or two together before he would take her home. "The opera is planning a new production of Gounod's _Faust,_" she was telling him, "and I shall need your help in preparing for the role of Marguerite."

"Still as Carlotta's understudy, correct?" he asked. "It's a shame that those fools who run my theatre don't recognize what a gem they have in you, my dear."

"_Your_ theatre?"

Erik shrugged. "I tend to feel possessive sometimes. After all, I did help Garnier design the place." He glanced down and saw Christine grinning up at him. "Oh…" he said, noticing the smirk on her face, "you were teasing, weren't you."

"You are far too serious sometimes, Erik," was all she would say and turned her head again to face the fire. She watched, mesmerized by the crackling blaze as its reflection bounced off the walls, adding a warm, golden cast to the room. "Where do we go from here?" she asked dreamily.

"Go? I'm not sure I know what you mean," replied Erik, combing his fingers through her hair, taking pleasure in the feel of her body resting against his.

"I mean us – you and I."

Erik hesitated. He had not really thought that far ahead, had actually been afraid to.

"What if we were to marry?" Christine went on, unaware of Erik's sudden discomfort. "Where would we live?"

The possibility of marriage was something completely new to him, and he gave careful consideration to her questions before answering. It was not that he the concept was unknown to him; on the contrary, it was something he had dreamt of, longed for, for much of his life – to have a nice, quiet flat, with ordinary doors and windows, and a wife inside it, like anybody else! A wife whom he could love and take out on Sundays and keep amused on week-days… 1 Marriage was something others might look forward to, but not him. Until now…

In spite of his deep feelings for her, Erik had been certain that his relationship with Christine would never progress beyond their being very dear friends, nothing more. He was still filled with so many self doubts, yet here she was, talking as if marrying would be the natural result of what they felt for each other. Could it be true? Was she telling him that perhaps there was hope, that her feelings reciprocated those feelings he had for her? Was Christine truly serious about marriage, or was she simply doing what young ladies her age often did – daydreaming about it.

"Not…not down here, I suppose," he finally said when he found his voice once more, wanting to believe, yet afraid of being hurt if he did. How strange, he thought, that at this point in his existence he was for the first time actually contemplating the kind of life that most took for granted – a normal, ordinary life.

He glanced about his home, trying to see things through her eyes. Christine might enjoy her sojourns down here now, to this hideaway from society, but at some point, the allure and fantasy would wear off. It wouldn't matter how much she loved him, she was not a person who could shun the world the way he had, and he should not expect her to. It had not quite crystallized in his mind yet, what it was he was doing, but instinctively he was putting her needs and wishes before his, taking those first steps in learning the give and take of relationships.

"It…it wouldn't be practical," he added, not knowing what else to say, not having the answers for either Christine's questions or his own.

Christine didn't seem troubled by his lack of response. She remained where she was, as content as a cat curled up on a hearth rug. "You're right, of course."

"We…we would have to find some quiet, secluded spot," he offered tentatively, 'a place that would be far enough from prying eyes, yet convenient to the opera house."

She raised her head and looked into his eyes. "Must you hide from the world, Erik? I know it is painful for you to talk about it, but you wouldn't be the first person whose face was scarred. Look at the men who were maimed and wounded in the war. I understand your need to cover your face in public, but that doesn't mean you must lock yourself away from the rest of the world. Yours is the face of the man I love," she pleaded. "Let others think what they will."

"You don't understand," he said, his voice heavy as he stroked her cheek with his hand, "you've never had to deal with the stares, the laughter, the shrieks, the humiliation… I love you, Christine, but there are some things I…I just cannot do. I'm…I'm sorry…" His head sagged down, his chin resting against his chest as he fought back the demons that were always lurking inside; certain he had just driven a wedge between them.

Christine stared at him and saw Erik's body sag as if in utter defeat, fearing she had wounded him. She loved him so very much, would always love him – that would never change – but she was only beginning to understand how much of a struggle his life had been.

"No, Erik," she said as she reached up, wanting to take back the inadvertently hurtful words, and tenderly took his hands within hers. "I'm the one who should apologize. I didn't think."

He raised his head and looked at her, his eyes deep and sad. "I…I imagine that you are now having second thoughts about…us."

"No, Erik," she said, leaning forward and kissing him lovingly, wanting to reassure him of her affection. "We will work this out – together."

* * *

**Author's Note:** Signor Pietro Sospenzo is named for NASCAR Crew Chief Peter Sospenzo, simply because I love the sound of his name!


	10. Christine's Big Break

**Chapter 9  
****Christine's Big Break**

**-0-0-0-**

The day before the first performance of _Faust_, Christine was informed that Carlotta had fallen ill. As her understudy, it was she who would now be singing Marguerite on opening night. Monsieur Villeneuve congratulated her, and himself, on her good fortune, while Messieurs Poligny and Richard fretted over an unknown taking over the role. Christine assured them all that she was confident in her ability to do justice to the role.

"Did you have anything to do with this?" she asked Erik later that day.

"As much as I would like to take credit for it, I must confess that Carlotta has brought her illness upon herself. She does not take proper care of herself – too many parties and late-night dinners. It did not take an Opera Ghost's machinations to provide you with the break you so rightly deserve."

"I'm certain there will be those who will suggest that the opposite is the case."

Erik did not care. If Christine proved to be the success he believed she would be, and supplanted the reigning diva, Carlotta would have no one to blame but herself.

-0-0-0-

It came as no surprise to Erik that Christine was brilliant. That night she revealed a new Marguerite, a Marguerite of a splendor and radiance hitherto unsuspected. The whole house went mad, rising to its feet, shouting, cheering, and clapping. She was the new darling of the City of Lights, and all Paris was in love with her – a lovely, innocent ingénue with a sparkling clear voice the likes of which had not been heard on the stage of the Paris Opera in many a year.

Erik watched from his normal seat in box five on the grand tier, and more than once was brought to tears by her performance. Near the end of the opera, when Marguerite looked heavenward and implored the aid of "Pure, shining angels," Christine's eyes gazed up to her own angel. Eager to be among the first to congratulate her, Erik dashed off before the final curtain calls were made, and waited for her in her dressing room.

-0-0-0-

The crowd of well-wishers swelled, filling the hallway outside her dressing room to overflowing, many bearing gifts and bouquets of flowers, all clamoring at her door, begging for the chance to worship at her feet. Safely ensconced inside the room, Erik and Christine enjoyed a few stolen moments celebrating her success. A perfectly-chilled bottle of vintage champagne rested in an ice bucket, next to two fluted glasses, compliments of the management. Popping open the bottle, Erik poured them each a glass of the effervescent liquid.

Giddy with exhilaration, Christine danced and twirled around the room. "Tonight I gave my soul," she said dramatically, "and I am dead." Then she made a graceful pirouette, and with a flair for drama that would have made La Sorelli proud, fell elegantly at Erik's feet.

Erik could not remember ever having felt so light-hearted himself, and laughing softly, bent over and took her by the hands, pulling her to her feet. She wrapped her arms around his neck as his encircled her waist, and they kissed – long, slow, passionate kisses.

"You did remember to lock the door, didn't you?" he asked as he nuzzled her neck, inhaling the attar of rose fragrance she was wearing.

Christine nodded, unable to speak as her mouth was otherwise occupied at the moment.

"Enjoy your triumph, my love," he whispered into her ear, and then forced himself to pull away. He nodded towards the door. "Your public awaits."

"I shall shoo them away as quickly as I can, my love," she said.

"Nonsense, you want their good favor. Be kind to them, smile at them. But remember that you are mine."

"If you insist, but I shall be down later to join you for a midnight supper."

With a final kiss on her hand, he stepped through the mirror, as Christine stepped out to meet her admirers.

-0-0-0-

Raoul de Chagny, who as one of the opera's newest patrons had been in attendance tonight, was also making his way backstage and found himself nearly swallowed up by the others who were also awaiting Christine's emergence from her room. Unmindful of whom he may have jostled along the way, he forced his way to the front of crowd. Then the door opened, and Christine stepped out, bowing gracefully, thanking her admirers.

Momentarily overwhelmed at all the faces waiting for her, she soon found herself surrounded by a sea of flowers being thrust her way. Taking a few of the smaller bouquets and cradling themin her arms, she remembered Erik's words: _be kind to them, smile at them, you want their good favor._ It was not hard to be kind, as their good will was contagious. The smile she wore on her face was genuine, but it froze as soon as she saw Raoul,

"Christine, I should like to have a word with you – alone."

She frowned; the last person she had wanted to see, much less be alone with, was Raoul. She had tried tactfully to make this known to him in the past, but she must not have made herself clear. One thing was certain, she was not about to invite him, unattended, into her dressing room, did not want him or the public to misunderstand their relationship. Instead, she pulled him aside – out of earshot of the others, yet still in plain view.

"What do you want to say to me, Raoul?"

He looked about at the predominantly male crowd, eyeing them suspiciously as many made no pretense of disguising their desire to hear what was being said. "I would prefer a more private place in which to speak to you, Christine. What I have to say is not meant for others to hear."

"Whatever it is you have to say to me, Raoul, you can say it here. If you don't want them to overhear you, keep your voice low."

"It is about us, Christine. About our relationship."

Christine balked. Relationship? What relationship was he talking about.?

"It is time that we take the next logical step. Allow me to become your personal patron," he said, managing to muster as much dignity as was possible when making such a declaration in so open and public a setting. "You would want for nothing – dresses, jewels, an apartment in a more fashionable part of town so that we may meet whenever we wish, without the intrusion of prying eyes..."

A knot formed in her stomach as she listened to Raoul extol the virtues of his proposal. "Is that what you think I want?" was all she could think to say.

Raoul looked puzzled. "Is it so wrong, what I am offering you?"

She knew that what Raoul was suggesting was hardly unheard of. In fact, most of the female singers and dancers – Meg Giry came immediately to mind – would be only too happy to snag someone like de Chagny as their personal patron.

"No, Raoul, it's not that at all. What you are offering me is…quite generous." She smiled wryly as she thought of Marguerite, the young maiden who had succumbed to the gifts and honeyed words of Faust, and Mephistopheles' jeering serenade:

_When your lover comes a calling, then your heart takes wing.  
__Don't unlock your door my darling till you wear his ring!_

_When your lover comes a-pleading then your heart takes wing.  
__Don't give him a kiss, my sweeting, till you wear his ring!_

She shook her head. No, dresses and jewels were not what she wanted. What she wanted, Raoul could not give her. "How can I explain this to you?" she said, looking up from time to time at the crowd and remembering to nod and smile at them. "I am looking for something more … permanent."

Raoul misinterpreted what she was trying to say. "But…but that's not possible," he sputtered. "An opera singer, even one who is the toast of Paris, could never aspire to become the wife of the younger brother of the Comte de Chagny. Surely, you can see that there would be no dishonor in accepting this situation. You need only look at my brother and Justine Sorelli. They have been 'an item' for many seasons, and no one thinks the worse of either of them for it. And look at how it has benefited Mme. Sorelli, providing her with a measure of wealth and security she would never have had without my brother's protection."

Christine opened her mouth to say something, but Raoul continued.

"If you're worried that I would someday grow tired of you, rest assured that would never be the case. But regardless, I will have papers drawn up, specifying all that you are entitled to and guaranteeing you financial security. The apartment, gifts, anything I give you would be in your name…"

Christine shook her head slowly. He still did not understand. She wanted to let him down gently, unaware that his fascination with her was becoming a dangerous obsession. "I can't, Raoul. To agree to such a relationship, I would have to be in love with you…and I'm not. I'm in love with someone else."

_There_, she told herself, _I've said it_. She saw the look on his face, worried that she had broken the young man's heart. "I'm sorry, Raoul."

"Very well, if that is your wish. But I still love you, Christine. Don't blame me if I don't give up so easily," he said, and left her to her admirers.

-0-0-0-


	11. Chandeliers and Shopping

**Chapter 10  
Chandeliers and Shopping**

**-0-0-0-**

For Christine Daaé, life was settling into a comfortable routine of rehearsals, performances and practice during the day, and evenings spent in Erik's company. Raoul had apparently taken her words to heart and had not bothered her since. He still frequented the opera house where he was often seen in the company of Meg Giry, which suited Christine just fine. It was while making her way to the stage to go over some changes in the current production with M. Villeneuve that Christine overheard Meg Giry talking to Little Jammes about the Opera Ghost.

"Have you heard the latest?" Meg was saying excitedly. "The Opera Ghost has threatened to drop the great chandelier on everyone's heads!"

Christine could hear the sharp intake of breath from the younger girl, who was clearly stunned by this. "What on earth would he do that for?"

"Because he doesn't like the way things are being run here." From Meg's tone, it was apparent that she was taking pleasure in frightening Little Jammes.

"B-but…how would you know?" Little Jammes' voice quivered and Christine swore she could hear her tears.

"My mother told me!"

Not wanting to be drawn into another tête-à-tête about the exploits of the mysterious Opera Ghost, Christine walked away in disgust.

Later that afternoon, when work was done and she stopped by her dressing room to get her coat, she found a note from Erik sitting on her dresser.

_Christine,_

_Meet me at the Rue Scribe entrance, and dress warmly. I have rented a carriage so that the two of us may enjoy an evening's excursion to the Bois de Boulogne._

_Erik_

Grabbing her winter wrap, she flew out of the building, nearly bowling him over as she ran out the door.

-0-0-0-

"It is twilight," Erik said, feeling an awkward need to explain his willingness to be out among so many people. "In the dimmer light, I'm less likely to be noticed."

Christine was sitting next to him inside the carriage, sharing a lap rug for warmth. It broke her heart when he said things like that. She wanted him to know she understood and appreciated this sacrifice he was willing to make for her. Reaching under the rug, she took his hand in hers and gave it a comforting squeeze.

The gesture brought a smile to his face. "Besides, it's not as if I never go out," he said, attempting to lighten the mood. "How else do you think I get the food I eat or the newspapers I enjoy reading? It is just that I am uncomfortable in the daylight, when my," he hesitated for a moment, "…my 'differences' are more easily be seen."

"You needn't feel obligated to explain this to me," Christine said, burrowing close to him. "I know you are doing this to please me, and I am deeply touched."

-0-0-0-

Their ride took them past many stores and boutiques, and Christine asked if they might stop and window shop. Erik agreed and instructed the coachman to wait for them, slipping the man handsome tip to ensure his compliance.

It was only days till Christmas, and the streets were crowded with shoppers. Erik kept his head down and his hat pulled low, but was determined to see this through for Christine's sake. _Besides,_ he reasoned to himself, _who wants look at a middle-aged man when there's a lovely young woman at his side?_ It wasn't long before he caught Christine's enthusiasm and found himself enjoying the outing. Soon they were strolling down the sidewalk, arm-in-arm, their heads together as they peered in the store windows, looking like any other couple in love.

"I didn't want to tell you this the other day because I did not want to spoil the evening, but on the night of my debut Raoul made me a proposition."

"A proposition? What kind of proposition?" He didn't like the sound of this.

"He offered to be my protector, my personal patron."

Erik stiffened. "And what did you tell him?"

"What do you think? I told him that I could not possibly accept such an offer, that I was in love with someone else."

"That young man has worn out his welcome." He considered several options before asking, "Shall I kill him for you?"

Christine stopped in the middle of the sidewalk. "What? You're not serious…are you?" Then she looked at his face and saw tiniest bit of a grin peeking back at her.

"I may be a little out of practice…" he shrugged, "but I imagine I could come up with something that wouldn't look too suspicious."

"Don't say such things, not even in jest!" she scolded, pretending she was displeased even though her eyes were sparkling with devilish delight. "Better yet, don't do anything to him. Don't even go near him."

"Why not? He insulted you."

"He's just used to having his own way."

"And you're probably the first woman to have ever turned him down."

"Let's just ignore him, Erik. It's too close to Christmas to get upset over such nonsense. Besides, he's got Meg Giry to keep him occupied now."

Erik snorted in disgust. "And he's welcome to her. You may choose to ignore him, but I shall continue to keep an eye on Monsieur le Vicomte. He spends far too much time finding excuses for so-called chance encounters with you. Whatever happened to the ideals of the Revolution? Have we forgotten why the heads of aristocrats were lopped off during the Reign of Terror?"

Christine erupted into gales of laughter. "Aren't you over-reacting?" She linked her arm back through his and pulled him over towards the window of a jewelry store to admire the creations on display. "You are beginning to sound like one of those socialists Mamma's always corresponding with."

"Socialists? What socialists? What are you talking about?"

"My foster mother has always been what some would call a 'free thinker.' She espouses radical ideas on social reform and justice, and corresponds with various like-minded persons on a regular basis."

"Now you sound like a college professor."

"Perhaps that is because I lived with one for many years. Either that or I've been listening to Mamma's lectures for so long that what she says has rubbed off on me. Even when the Professor was alive, it wasn't unusual for me to see letters come in from all over the continent and even as far away as America. I remember them talking about the Revolutions of 1848. I believe Mamma and Prof. Valérius may have taken in some of the refugees who were fleeing the continent and making their ways to England or America after the uprisings were crushed."

Looking in the window, Christine spotted a particularly beautiful crystal brooch and pointed it out to Erik, suggesting that this might be a nice Christmas present for someone. He did not appear interested in brooches, so she changed the subject.

"By the way, what is this I hear about you threatening to drop the great chandelier on everybody's head?" she asked.

"_What?"_

"I head today that O.G. sent a letter to the managers about the great chandelier that graces the ceiling of the opera house, threatening 'a disaster beyond your imagination' by letting loose the chandelier if his demands are not met."

Erik groaned. "And why in heaven's name would I do something as stupid as that?"

"Then you didn't leave them a note?"

"Well…uh, yes," he sighed, "I left them a note and I did mention something about the chandelier, but it was not the least bit threatening in nature. On the contrary, it was intended as a friendly warning. Maintenance isn't what it used to be and during one of my evening strolls through the building, I noticed that the chain holding the chandelier appeared to be in less-than-adequate condition. I saw something that looked suspiciously like rust on some of the links. I merely suggested that they have the thing repaired or, yes, they _would_ have a disaster on their hands!"

Christine considered what he said, and agreed that the contents of his note were likely misinterpreted by someone.

"No doubt by that busybody, Mme. Giry," he suggested.

"Meg's mother? I thought you and she had a 'special understanding'?"

"Whoever told you that?"

"Meg?" Christine offered.

"Pshaw! The woman is as crazy as a loon."

"But doesn't she ensure that box five is kept empty for you?"

"That's about all she's good for," Erik grumbled. "All I have to do is say boo, and she's running down the hall, screaming and flailing her arms in the air as if she's being chased by a legion of demons. And if I don't leave her a box of bonbons on a regular basis, she fusses and fumes and carries on something fierce. Fortunately, I seldom need to confront the woman face to face. I usually communicate with her via the notes I leave for her."

Christine couldn't help laughing out loud. When it came to Mme. Giry, Erik painted a far different picture from the one she got from Meg. "What about the other part of the letter?"

"What other part?" He was suspicious now.

"You know, the demand for 20,000 francs a month?"

Erik dismissed that with a wave of his hand. "I may have 'suggested' that a monthly salary would go a long way in keeping them in O.G.'s good graces, but I never actually threatened anyone – at least not much."

"Ah-ha!" Christine cried out with sudden understanding. "No wonder you don't care if they think O.G. is a homicidal maniac!"

Erik smiled. "Touché."

-0-0-0-

**Historical Note (because I'm a historian at heart!):**

The **European Revolutions of 1848**, known in some countries as the **Spring of Nations** or the **Year of Revolution**, were a series of revolutions, which erupted in Sicily and then, further triggered by the Revolution of 1848 in France, soon spread to the rest of Europe. These European Revolutions were the violent consequences of a variety of changes that had been taking place in Europe in the first half of the 19th century. In politics, both bourgeois reformers and radical politicians were seeking change in their nations' governments. In society, technological change was creating new ways of life for the working classes, a popular press extended political awareness, and new values and ideas such as nationalism and socialism began to spring up. The tinder that lit the fire was a series of economic downturns and crop failures that left the peasants and the poor working classes starving. The result was a wave of revolution sweeping across Europe and raising hopes of liberal reform. The revolutions were put down quickly, their span there was horrific violence on all sides. Tens of thousands were tortured and killed. Although the immediate effects of the revolutions were short-term, there were lasting legacies. Alexis de Tocqueville remarked in his _Recollections_ that "society was cut in two: those who had nothing united in common envy, and those who had anything united in common terror."

-0-0-0-


	12. Christmas Presents

**Chapter 11  
****Christmas Presents**

**-0-0-0-**

Christine looked at the calendar on the wall – six more days until Christmas. With the opera house being closed Friday through Monday for the holidays, she would have enough time to do all everything she wanted to do. She had double and triple checked the train schedules to make sure she could leave for Perros-Guirec early Friday morning, which would allow her to spend the rest of that day and Christmas Eve with Mamma Valérius. Then she could catch the early train back to Paris on Sunday, Christmas Day, and be back in time to have supper with Erik.i She had tried to persuade Erik to come with her and meet her foster mother, but each time he politely declined, saying that he would feel out of place and had no wish to interfere with their reunion. Promising him that she would be back by Christmas night, she began making her preparations.

-0-0-0-

"I wish we could celebrate Christmas like we did back in Sweden." Christine was placing pine boughs on the mantle, and decorating them with red ribbons, wanting to cheer up Erik's house before she left for Perros tomorrow morning. "When I was a little girl, Christmas was always a special time. I think my favorite was the smörgåsbord, the Christmas meal. The sideboard would groan, it would be so heavy with food. There would be ham, jellied pigs feet, _lutfisk_, cabbage pudding, Christmas sausage, rice porridge, and . . . oh, many, many other special treats."

Erik was sitting in his chair and looked up from the newspaper he was reading. "_Lutfisk?_ What is that?"

"It's a favorite of mine, a traditional dish made from air-dried whitefish that's been soaked in lye to make it soft and palatable."

"Sounds absolutely disgusting." He returned to his newspaper.

"It's really quite good."

"I find it difficult to believe that anything soaked in lye could be made 'palatable'. I'll take French cuisine over that any day."

"That's just because you're afraid to try something new. Maybe I should tie a ribbon around _you_ to brighten you up."

He pretended to glare at her. "I don't think that would be a good idea."

"You're just being difficult, you know that? Now, where was I…? Oh, the Christmas Eve feast would include the _dopp i grytan_, the 'dipping in the kettle.' Everyone would gather round the table and we would dip bits of bread into the broth that was left over the ham had been boiled. When the meal was over, we would be visited by the _tomte_, the Christmas gnome who lived under the floorboards and who gave us presents."

"It's a wonder the Christmas gnome didn't drop over from eating that food."

"The gnome managed just fine, thank you."

Even though he pretended otherwise, Erik found himself enchanted with her stories of Christmas. "What about St. Lucia? Didn't someone usually dress as her?"

"That would actually be on December 13, which is St. Lucia's day."

He nodded. "That makes sense."

"Back in Sweden, the Christmas season begins on St. Lucia's Day. When I was 6 years old, I got to be the Lucia. I wore an all-white gown and a crown of candles in my hair. I brought coffee, rolls, ginger biscuits and _glogg_ – that's a mulled wine – to all the adults in the house, and then I sang carols about St. Lucia to my parents."

"You managed to do that and not set the house on fire?"

"Don't be silly." Finished with her decorating, she stepped back to inspect the job. "There, what do you think?"

He looked around the room, admitting that the bits of green and red gave it a much more festive appearance.

"What about you? Did you ever celebrate Christmas?" she asked.

"My family never observed any such traditions."

"Not even going to church?"

Erik laughed bitterly. "No, they would not even take me with them to attend church services. My father told me that the Christ Child would not want me anywhere near the church on His birthday, that my presence would pollute the festivities."

"Then he was a vile, sinful man, to say such things to a little boy."

"He…he didn't know any better. Besides, it was of little consequence. I left home shortly after that, and traveled the continent. For many years, I journeyed with gypsies and traveling fairs, performing as 'The Living Corpse'." He heard her gasp when he said that, but she made no comment. "It wasn't as bad as it sounds," he said. "Just a name to draw the people in."

Christine suspected there might have been more to it than just that, but kept those thoughts to herself. That he felt comfortable enough to confide in her was what was important.

"I journeyed across Europe and Russia, giving shows and gaining a small reputation. During my travels, I discovered that I had a quick aptitude for learning. I taught myself to read, and after that, I studied everything and anything I could – including architecture and music. On a few occasions, I was allowed to study in a library or at a university. Eventually I ended up in Persia, where I lived for a number of years. Being that most of the inhabitants of that country are Mohammedans, Christmas wasn't observed there. So you see, I have little experience with holiday traditions. "

"Then I think it is time that you and I began our own holiday traditions, starting with where to hang this mistletoe…"

-0-0-0-

The train screeched to a halt as it pulled into the station at Perros-Guirec. Stepping onto the platform, Christine found herself greeted by Mamma Valérius, who had been waiting with a wagon to take them back to her house. She picked up Christine's valise and the two women climbed aboard. Giving the reins a quick flick, Mamma headed them back to her house.

They arrived at a two story pink granite house with pale blue shutters and surrounded by a low stone fence, typical of the country houses in that part of Brittany. To the left of the door was an apple tree whose branches reached up to the second floor and that in the spring would fill the upper rooms with the fragrance of its blossoms. That tree brought back happy memories to Christine, as she remembered reaching out her bedroom window and picking apples from it. Closer to the road was a row of lilac bushes, each well over six feet tall. The house was only a short walk from the ocean and its sandy beach, and gulls could often be heard as they flew overhead.

"My goodness, Christine, let me get a good look at you!" Mamma said as she helped Christine unpack. "You've grown so since I last saw you."

"That's not true, Mamma. I haven't grown an inch since we were last together."

"Nonsense. You've filled out. You've become more," she looked for the right word, ". . . more womanly." Mamma smiled as she watched her foster daughter blush. "I imagine that gentleman friend you're always writing about is sorry you left him back in Paris."

"You mean Erik, Mamma?"

Mamma winked at her. "Is there another I should know about?"

"No, of course there isn't."

"I didn't think so. So, tell me, why didn't you ask him to come along?"

"I did, but he declined. He's quite shy. I believe I mentioned that in one of my letters."

"Yes, several times as I recall. You'll have to work on him, help him to get over this shyness of his. Now you must tell me, how serious is it between the two of you?"

Christine's face lit up. "I'm hoping he will propose to me soon."

-0-0-0-

Dawn broke. It was December 24th – Christmas Eve day. Christine stretched, not wanting to get out of the deliciously warm bed. Downstairs, she could tell that Mamma was already up making breakfast as the aroma of freshly brewed coffee and bacon frying in the skillet wafted through the house. The only thing that could have made things more complete would have been if Erik were there with her.

She heard Mamma's voice calling from the kitchen. "Christine? Are you awake? Breakfast is ready!"

Forcing herself to get out of bed, she washed and dressed, then went downstairs to greet Mamma with a morning kiss. "Mmm, smells good," she said as she took her seat at the kitchen table.

"Christine darling, is everything all right?" Mamma Valérius set a plate of freshly baked biscuits on the table to have with their breakfast.

"Why of course, Mamma. Why do you ask?"

"You look to me like you are missing someone."

Christine frowned. "Is it so obvious?"

Mamma nodded. "I know we planned on spending Christmas Eve together, but I think you should return to Paris, and your Erik."

"Are . . . are you sure?"

She gave Christine a hug and patted her on the back. "You know that's where you want to be."

Christine hung her head, feeling guilty that her foster mother had guessed the truth.

"Now, don't go thinking that you're going to upset me if you return to Paris right away. I'm not so old as to have forgotten what it feels like to be in love. Having you visit, even for this short a time, is Christmas present enough for me. Now, let me see you smile again. That's better. Finish your breakfast, and I'll help you get your bag packed. And I'll make up a basket you can take with you on the ride back."

A short while later, Mamma was seeing Christine off at the station. As she watched the train pull out, she smiled wistfully to herself – her little girl was becoming a woman.

-0-0-0-

Erik wandered about his house, feeling lost and miserable. _For heaven's sake,_ he chided himself,_ she's only been gone one day and already you're moping about like a lovesick swain._ But the scolding did not help. For the first time since he had come to live here, he found no comfort in the place. Instead, it seemed hollow and lonely.

Looking about merely emphasized what an integral part of his life Christine had become. He was more certain than ever that if anyone could save him from his personal demons it was she. Everywhere he looked, he saw something that reminded him of her. Over there was her favorite chair, and lying on the table was the book she had been reading on her last visit. Walking over to the piano, he noted the place where she would stand when he played for her. And he could not help but smile at the bits of red and green, pine boughs and mistletoe and red ribbons she had sprinkled around the house. With nothing to do, he sat in his chair and picked up the newspaper.

-0-0-0-

It was late in the evening when Christine returned to Paris. It was cold outside, but not too cold, and the streets were fairly empty as most people were preparing to celebrate Christmas Eve. Fortune smiled on her as Christine did not have to wait too long to find a cab to take her back to the Rue Scribe entrance of the opera house.

After paying the cabbie, she waited until he had driven away before going to the secret entrance. Checking to make sure no one was watching, she pulled out the key that Erik had given her several months ago, the same key that would also unlock the door to his house. Slipping inside the empty building, she locked the door behind her and headed towards the stairs. Picking up her skirts, she walked down the five levels to Erik's house, lighting her way with a candle she had brought from Mamma's house for just this purpose. Being careful so as not to lose her footing and stumble into the lake, she made her way to the hidden house.

Arriving at her destination, she noted that the boat was still tied to the dock, and saw the very faintest glint of light peeking from the cracks around the doorway. She knocked lightly, but there was no answer. Erik might have stepped out, but she didn't think so. Giving the doorknob a turn, she found it secured. Taking out the key once again, she inserted it into the keyhole and let herself in.

"Erik?" she called softly, but still there was no answer. Concerned that something was wrong, she looked around the house. Stepping into the parlor, she saw Erik – asleep in his chair with the newspaper on the floor where it had fallen. Laughing at herself for being such a worrier, she tip-toed over and woke him with a kiss.

"Merry Christmas, Erik."

Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, he looked up, surprised but extremely happy to see her. Then he began to fret.

"Is everything all right? I wasn't expecting you to return until tomorrow."

She took off her coat and bonnet, deliberately draping them over them over the only vacant chair. Erik started to get up and give her his, but she motioned that he should remain seated. Feeling rather coquettish, she came over and sat on his lap.

"I came home early, to spend Christmas Eve with you," she said, wrapping her arms around his neck kissing his unmasked cheek.

"Brrr . . . your hands are cold."

"Then I suppose I shall have to ask you to warm them up." _Good,_ she thought, _that brought a smile to his face_.

"But, your foster mother…? I thought you were spending Christmas Eve with her."

"She sent me back to you," she said, "with her blessing. You're not upset with me for returning early, are you?"

"No, it's just that this is all…so unexpected, but not unpleasant."

"Before I forget . . . I have something for you." She got up and walked over to where her coat lay, and pulled something out of the pocket. Returning to his side, she handed him a small package, wrapped in gaily colored paper and decorated with a satin bow.

"Merry Christmas."

He looked down at the package in his hands, then back up at Christine. "You are the first person to ever give me a Christmas present. You . . . you'll never know how much this means to me . . ." He opened it almost reverently, being careful so as not to tear the precious paper. Beneath the wrapping was a volume of poetry bound in Moroccan leather and edged in gold leaf. Opening the cover, he found Christine had written in it:

_To Erik  
__On the occasion of our First Christmas  
__Your Christine_

He didn't know what to say at first, but finally managed to squeak out a thank you. He wanted to say more, but couldn't; he was too overwhelmed for words. He simply stared at the book, gently turning its pages.

"Perhaps this time it is I who should make tea for you," she said, giving him another kiss before heading to the kitchen . . .

_Now sleeps the crimson petal, now the white;  
Nor waves the cypress in the palace walk;  
Nor winks the gold fin in the porphyry font;  
The fire-fly wakens: waken thou with me._

_Now droops the milkwhite peacock like a ghost,  
And like a ghost she glimmers on to me.  
Now likes the Earth all Danaë to the stars,  
And all thy heart lies open unto me. _

_Now slides the silent meteor on, and leaves  
A shining furrow, as thy thoughts in me._

_Now folds the lily all her sweetness up,  
And slips into the bosom of the lake:  
So fold thyself, my dearest, thou, and slip  
Into my bosom and be lost in me._

They sat by the fire. Christine was in his lap once more, her arms around his neck and her head resting on his shoulder as she listened to him read Tennyson's _Songs from the Princess_.

When he finished he closed the book and set it carefully on the table. "Thank you, Christine. I couldn't have asked for a more perfect present."

"At first, I wasn't sure if a book of romantic poems would be the right present for you. Then I thought of all the passion you have locked up inside here," she rested her right hand upon his heart, "and knew that my worries were silly."

"I believe you have come to know me better than I know myself."

"Isn't that how it should be, when two people love each other as we do?" Christine snuggled closer, and glanced up at the mantle. "Erik, is that a present I see up there?" she asked, spying a small gift box.

"I believe Père Noël must have left a Christmas present for you. Here, let me give it to you now." He got up from the chair and, picking up the package, presented it to her. "I . . . I hope I'm not being presumptuous . . ." he faltered, all of a sudden feeling quite nervous and panicky inside.

Christine unwrapped the package, revealing a small jeweler's box. She smiled. _Maybe I was wrong. Maybe he was paying attention when I pointed out that brooch to him the other day._ Excited, she opened the box. Inside she found not a pin, but a simple gold band and a card. On the card, he had written:

_Fate links thee to me forever and a day  
__Erik_

Her breath caught as she looked up at him. He stepped forward, took her hands into his, and asked, "Christine Daaé, will you marry me?"

-0-0-0-

Author's Note: In 1880, Christmas Day fell on a Sunday. I don't know if the Paris Opera ever really did close for Christmas, but in my story, it does!


	13. Bal Masqué

**Author's Note:**

I just wanted to take a moment and thank all of you who are reading "Variations," and especially those of you who are taking to time to post feedback. When I began this story, I wasn't sure I could do it justice, much less whether it would be well received. You've helped me exceed my expectations, and I am very, very grateful. I hope you will find what comes next in the rest of the story to beas good as the beginning. I will continue striving to post a new chapter at least once a week, twice if I can keep up this pace for writing new chapters!

**Caution for some vulgar language in this chapter.**

HDKingsbury

**Chapter 12  
Bal Masqué**

_December 31, 1880  
New Year's Eve_

It had taken Christine the better part of an afternoon to persuade Erik that the two of them should attend the New Year's Eve celebrations that were to be held at the opera house. "But the _Bal Masqué_ will be perfect! Nobody will know anybody because everyone will be wearing a mask!"

Erik felt his stomach knot at the mere thought of attending. "There will be too many people there."

"Please, Erik? For me?" She felt bad about using such a ploy, but she knew she needed to get him out of his self-imposed exile and become more at ease around people. Hadn't Mamma told her to help him get over his shyness?

"Besides, I want to show off my engagement ring."

Erik balked, but when he saw the glint of gold on the third finger of her left hand, he knew he could refuse her nothing. The battle might have already been lost, but he was still looking for an excuse. "What will it matter if anyone sees your ring? No one will know who you are if you're wearing a costume."

"That's not the point," Christine said, exasperated. "I'll know, and that's all that really matters. Don't you see? This will be the perfect occasion for the two of us to go out in public and enjoy the party. You won't have to worry about anyone seeing you. Everyone will be disguised; you'll just be another mask in the crowd."

Eventually Erik agreed, but insisted that they leave well before midnight, when the New Year would be rung in and everyone would remove his or her mask.

-0-0-0-

New Year's Eve. Christine looked out her apartment window at the snowy Parisian landscape in time to see Erik's carriage pull up in front. She made one more trip to the mirror to check her costume, a gown in the style of the Italian Renaissance, a la Juliet made of cream-colored satin and velvet. Its high waistline, low décolletage, and mutton sleeves, all trimmed in gold ribbons and bows, flattered her lithe figure, something she was sure Erik would appreciate. To top off the costume, she had her blonde hair curled and caught up in a snood of gold net. The last items were her mask, a traditional half-mask, adorned with sequins, faux pearls and feathers that she fitted over her eyes before stepping out the door, and a short fur wrap.

As Erik stepped out of the carriage, she couldn't help but stare admiringly. His costume, a creation based upon the style of Louis XIV, "The Sun King," was made of velvets, satins and brocades all in shades of the deepest crimson, trimmed in gold braid and worn over shirt of purest white. She noted approvingly that it was cut in such a manner as to emphasize his handsome physique.

Draped over his left arm was a floor-length cloak, and on his head, he wore a wide-brimmed plumed hat, also in shades of scarlet. Completing his costume were black leather gloves and black patent leather shoes with large buckles. His mask was full-faced in the form of a skull that left only his mouth uncovered. Christine felt her insides turn to jelly as the overall effect of his outfit took her breath away.

"Are you ready, Mademoiselle?" he asked, holding out his right hand to assist her into the carriage.

"Yes, Erik. I'm ready."

-0-0-0-

They entered the main hall, drinking in the sights and sounds of the revelers and merrymakers, many of whom were already in their cups. Christine observed that though Erik was oblivious to it, he had captured the attention of just about every female in the room. Dozens of glances and outright stares were directed at him, and one costumed woman actually reached out to touch his arm.

"Do not touch me," he glared menacingly at the woman. "I am Red Death stalking abroad."

With murmurs of "Red Death" and "_la mort rouge_" rippling throughout the room, Christine turned and hissed at him, "Oh Erik, must you always be so melodramatic."

A footman passed by, carrying a tray of champagne glasses. Erik appropriated two, handing one to Christine. As they strolled about the room, Christine looked to see if she recognized anyone.

-0-0-0-

Anatole Garron, dressed as Julius Caesar – complete with fake knife sticking out of his back – was making the rounds of the room. He had seen Christine enter with her striking male companion, but chose to remain at a discreet distance. Only the other day he had once again overheard de Chagny complaining bitterly about Mlle. Daaé and her choice of companions, and decided to keep a protective eye on her. The last thing Christine needed on New Year's Eve was an ugly confrontation with a turned-down suitor who was three sheets to the wind.

"Ah, my dear Anatole, how good to see you."

He cringed as he heard Carlotta and turned around to see a bejeweled Cleopatra bearing down on him. "Carlotta…I mean, your majesty." He made a deep bow.

"You are alone tonight? Such a shame, a handsome man like you. Perhaps you and I, as Julius Caesar and Cleopatra, should reenact history."

"Ah, Madame, you flatter me. But I am unworthy of your favors. I hear, though, that Pietro Sospenzo," he pointed to Henry VII gnawing on a turkey leg, "has been seeking you out."

"Sospenzo? He has been looking for me? Are you sure? I thought for sure he did not care for me."

"Nonsense, Madame Carlotta. Do you not understand the ways of the heart? He says no…but he really means yes."

"He does?"

Anatole nodded. "Now, go after him. And don't take no for an answer." He laughed to himself, surprised at how easily he had gotten rid of Carlotta.

-0-0-0-

The orchestra struck up a waltz. Holding out a gloved hand, Erik asked, "Would Mam'selle care to dance with Red Death?"

She laughed and accepted his invitation. "I shall be more than happy to dance with Death."

Swirling around on the dance floor and with Christine in his arms, it was easy to forget why he has felt compelled to hide in a world of darkness. Lost in a sea of masks, he was able to stop thinking about how cruel the world could be. Then he looked across the room and saw Raoul de Chagny, with Meg Giry draped on his arm, make his entrance. The young vicomte was dressed as Hercules, complete with lion skin, his costume leaving much of his flesh exposed as he made a point of showing off his well-formed body to the ladies. Meg, dressed as a country shepherdess, appeared to be more than a little tipsy and was having trouble keeping her toy sheep on its leash as she shot an angry glance at Raoul's antics.

-0-0-0-

"It's nearly midnight, Christine. De Chagny's here, time for us to leave…" Taking her by the arm, the two of them quietly left the main hall and were making their way down an empty corridor to one of the side exits when someone called after them.

"Where are you going in such a hurry, Monsieur?" It was Raoul de Chagny, his words slightly slurred from champagne. "It's almost midnight. Don't you wish to stay around for the unmasking? We are all intrigued to see who it is that Mlle. Daaé has chosen to bestow her affections upon."

They stopped and turned to face the vicomte. An exasperated sigh escaped Christine's lips. "Raoul, stop this."

But the young aristocrat disregarded her words, and kept coming towards them. "What's the matter, Christine? I'm not good enough for you? And you," he glared at Erik, remembering all too vividly the scene he had watched on the rooftop, "who do you think you are? Why are you afraid to show us your face?"

Then he spied the ring on Christine's finger, and his face contorted in anger. "What's this? Not good enough for you, am I? I offer you riches, and you turn me down. You slut, opening your legs to accept this mountebank's favors over mine! I'll show you. I'll ruin you, you bitch! No one's going to want to listen to you sing when I get done!"

Christine recoiled from the vehemence of his words and could feel Erik's body tense. She bit her lip to keep from lowering herself to answer Raoul's unjust accusations. She glanced at Erik and knew he was within an inch of going after Raoul. She kept her arm around his to prevent him from attacking Raoul. "Just ignore him, Erik," she pleaded.

Hatred shown in Erik's eyes. "No, Christine, I'll not allow him to insult you…"

"Please, just…just let it go. He's not worth it." She began to lead Erik reluctantly towards the door when Raoul reached out to the scarlet-clad figure, grabbing Erik by the arm and jerking him away from Christine.

Erik's eyes flashed with barely-controlled fury as he drew himself up to his full height and pushed de Chagny aside, causing him to fall to the floor in an inelegant pile. He stared angrily at the young man as though he were indeed Red Death. _"You're drunk!"_ he hissed. "It would be best for all concerned if you left!"

"No!" Raoul screamed indignantly, getting himself up off the floor, his face flushed with alcohol and rage. "I want to know who you are, why Christine would choose you over me!"

Christine stepped forward in an attempt to place herself between the two of them and defuse what was quickly degenerating into a volatile situation. "I don't owe you any explanations," she said angrily. "My life is my own, and I shall live it the _way_ I want and _with whom_ I want, and not according to the wishes of you or anyone else! Now stop making a fool of yourself and let us pass."

But Raoul was beyond reasoning with. He shoved his way past Christine, nearly knocking her over in his attempt to get at Erik.

Erik, with an almost demonic fury, rounded on the vicomte, his voice dripping with venom. "I told you to…" he started to say but before he could finish Raoul reached out and grabbed at Erik's face, tearing the mask away. A look of panic spread across the nobleman's face as he staggered back in shock.

"My God!" Raoul gasped as he stared at Erik's damaged face. "What the hell…? What…? You chose this…this _thing_…over me? Christine, what were you thinking? What kind of control does he have over you?"

Few people in the main hall could hear the disturbance over the sounds of the party, but Anatole, suspecting the vicomte of seeking a confrontation of some sort, had been listening for Raoul's voice over the din. Rushing to the corridor, he called out, "What's going on here? Is everything all right?" but no one seemed to notice his presence.

Blind fury tore through Erik as he sprang at the stunned de Chagny. Grabbing Raoul by the front of his shirt, he threw him violently against the wall. Murderous rage coursed through his veins as his hands found their way around Raoul's neck.

"_Christine . . . Christine . . . help me!"_ Raoul screamed as he struggled to free himself from Erik's grip.

She ran to Erik, grabbing him by the arm as she tried to pry him off Raoul. "Erik, stop this…please, stop this!" she pleaded, trying to keep her voice from getting any louder and drawing attention to what was taking place in the corridor. The last thing either she or Erik needed was a crowd. "Please . . . Erik?"

By then, Anatole had seen what was taking place and rushed forward. Between the two of them, they managed to pull Erik off the vicomte.

Erik blinked as the sound of Christine's voice – and the force of Anatole arms – allowed the anger inside to bleed away. He staggered back, staring at the vicomte. He looked first at Christine and then at Anatole, trying to figure out how the other man happened to be here. The fear he saw in Christine's eyes tore at him, and he felt angry with himself for having lost control. He silently pleaded with her for understanding, then watched numbly as she walked over to his side. Taking him by the arm, she led him away from Raoul, who had slumped to his knees and rubbing his throat as he tried to catch his breath.

"It's all right, Erik. Let's just go," she said soothingly. "It doesn't matter. None of this matters. Raoul is of no importance. Let us leave this place and go home," she implored.

Anatole gave them both a reassuring nod. "It's all right, you two. I'll take care of things here." He walked over to the kneeling Raoul, and offered him a hand up. Raoul swatted at him to go away, but Anatole didn't budge. "Come along, Monsieur. You've had enough partying for one night."

"My God, he's a monster," Raoul said to Anatole, still massaging his bruised throat.

Christine snapped around, her eyes flashing. "If there's a monster in this room, then it is you, Raoul de Chagny. You provoked him, you and your stupid arrogance!"

"But…his face? How can you even stand to…"

"Be silent, you dim-witted, narrow-minded…_toad!_ How dare you judge him because of his face!"

Erik stared at Christine with a newfound pride. He had never seen her like this, dangerous as a lioness protecting her own. The last of the rage that had gripped him earlier was completely gone. All he felt now was drained and exhausted, and wanted nothing more than to leave this place.

"You're right, Christine," he finally said softly. "It is time that we left." He held out his arm to her, and Christine, stepping away from the defeated vicomte, accepted it proudly.

As they started towards the door, Anatole called out, "Monsieur, a moment if you please."

Erik, puzzled, stopped and turned around. He watched as Anatole picked something up off the ground, and held it out to him. It is his mask. "Thank you, Monsieur," he said, "for everything tonight."

Anatole simply nodded and offered an understanding look. "My pleasure." He glanced over at Raoul, then back at the two of them. "You're right; I think it's time to take the young lady home."

Erik put the mask back in place and returned to Christine, who looped her arm through his and gave him a shaky smile. He looked back at the vicomte one last time. "Leave us alone, de Chagny. Christine has no interest in you. This is your only warning." Then, with Christine at his side, he walked away.

As the two figures receded down the corridor, Anatole and Raoul heard the clock strike midnight. Cheers and laughter from the main hall informed them that the revelers were ushering in a New Year. Not knowing what had become of her date for the evening, Meg Giry entered the room.

"Raoul? Raoul, are you out here?" She looked around before she saw Raoul slumped against the wall, Anatole assisting him.

"Take him home, Mademoiselle," Anatole said to her. "He's had too much to drink."

-0-0-0-


	14. Plots Are Begun

**Chapter 13  
Plots Are Begun**

**-0-0-0-**

_January 1881_

"What do you think, my dear? Does it meet with your approval?"

Meg hungrily eyed the new apartment, impressed with what she saw. "It's everything I've always wanted." When Raoul made his offer of patronage, enticing her with promises to set her up in a luxurious and spacious apartment along the Rue de Rivoli, Meg had not needed to think twice about accepting.

Over the weeks, he had showered her with gifts – dresses, jewelry, suppers at the most exclusive restaurants – all to get into her good graces and groom her for the job he wanted her to do. Dalliance with Meg had begun as a ploy to make Christine jealous. That scheme hadn't worked, but he soon learned to appreciate the ballerina on a much more physical level, enjoying the sexual favors she so freely gave. The first time they'd made love, he had not been the least surprised to discover that she was not a virgin. Not that such silliness mattered to him. He appreciated a woman who knew how to please a man, how to make him feel strong and invincible, and he intended to put Meg to good use, both in the bedroom and in his plans for revenge against Christine and her lover.

Meg, on her part, was more than happy to accept Raoul's attentions. She had no illusions that dance alone would get her the things she wanted in life and wasn't above using her body to improve her situation. She was a material creature who craved the pretty baubles Raoul dangled in front of her. Young and sensuous, her goal had always been to replace "La Sorelli" as prima ballerina. Sorelli was old by Meg's standards. As far as she was concerned, it was time for the old cow to be put out to pasture, and for Raoul de Chagny to step forward and take his older brother's place as a major patron at the Paris Opera – with Meg Giry at his side.

As for Christine Daaé, Meg had no use for the simpering, mealy-mouthed singer. Anyone who willingly threw away the opportunity of long-term success on the stage through the backing of a wealthy patron deserved no one's pity. Christine had enjoyed an unexpectedly successful debut, to be sure, but once Carlotta was well, that harpy would see that the little chit was put back in her place!

-0-0-0-

Even with the passing of time, the events of the evening of the _bal masqué_ still left a sour taste in Erik's mouth. He avoided discussing the matter with Christine, though, not wishing to upset her any more than she already was over the whole unfortunate business. More than once, she had tried to apologize for ever suggesting they attend, but he would hear none of it.

"None of this would have happened if I hadn't insisted on our going," she had said one evening.

"You mustn't berate yourself over the actions of another," he told her. "The only person to blame for what happened is de Chagny himself."

It still rankled Erik, though, that what should have been the most perfect night of his life had been ruined by the vicomte's drunken behavior. De Chagny's conduct had nearly led to Erik's killing him, and that distressed him – not because he had any real concern for the sniveling fool, but because Erik thought he'd had better control over his emotions. He had believed that chapter of his life, the one filled with so much anger and violence, was closed. There had been a time when he would not have batted an eyelash over dispatching an insect like de Chagny, when he would have done whatever was necessary to survive. But those days were long past. He was a better man now, or so he had thought.

Christine had shown him that life could still hold promise for him. Time and again, she had demonstrated through her compassion and her love that she was able to see beyond his masks – the ones he wore inside as well as the one on his face. Her unconditional acceptance had given him a new strength, the strength to tell her about himself, something he would not have believed possible in the past. But in spite of all this, there were still some things he never wanted her to know, never wanted to expose her to. His terrible anger was one of those things.

De Chagny was a nuisance, he told himself, nothing more. A pest, a spoiled son of the aristocracy who had never known want or need, who never knew what it was like to fight and claw one's way out of life's gutter, to struggle for one's very existence. De Chagny and his ilk were not worthy of his attention, so Erik determined to ignore the young man. Christine had made her choice, and that was all that mattered.

-0-0-0-

"Why the sour face, love?" asked Meg, draped along the _chaise longue_ in her apartment as Raoul sat beside her, stroking her breasts.

"I was thinking…"

"Dangerous occupation, Raoul. Thinking can get you in trouble," she teased as she leaned over to kiss his full lips, her fingers tracing imaginary designs on his chest. "Let me guess. Still thinking about Chrissy and her ogre of a boyfriend?"

"Don't remind me. That freak humiliated me, impugned my manhood," he fumed.

"That was weeks ago. Besides, your manhood's fine as far as I'm concerned," she said as her hand trailed lower.

"That malformed hypocrite has made me the laughing stock of Paris! Music teacher, bah!"

"You're being overly dramatic, Raoul. No one saw what happened except Anatole Garron and me, and neither of us is talking."

"Like hell. I'll just bet Garron is enjoying telling the tale to whoever will listen."

"You know, there are some who think that Mlle. Daaé's teacher and the Opera Ghost are one and the same."

That caught Raoul's interest. "Who told you this?"

"Just rumor. Many of us have seen glimpses of a mysterious figure loitering near her dressing room, and have heard her talking to someone in her room when it was obvious that she was alone."

Raoul considered the possibilities. "Perhaps it was simply someone who arrived earlier and was waiting for her," he suggested.

"Perhaps. Or perhaps it was OG who, like the phantom that he is, slipped in through the walls – undetected by others. There are some who are even saying that OG arranged for Carlotta to fall ill."

"You want me to believe that a ghost made her sick?"

"Or, maybe it was her teacher who slipped Carlotta something that made her sick and thus provided Christine with her great opportunity. OG was obviously very pleased with her debut."

"He told you this himself?" he asked skeptically.

"Of course not, silly. My mother told me."

"Ah, your mother. She and the ghost are…friends?"

"In a way. She takes care of his private box, and delivers his letters to the managers."

"After reading them herself?"

"Sometimes, if the envelope isn't sealed and the letter happens to fall out. And as I'm her daughter, it's only natural that she would pass these things on to me. But all this talk about Christine is tedious and distracting me from what I want to do." She disentangled herself from Raoul's embrace and got up from the _chaise_, walking over to the wine decanter and pouring them each a glass. "I don't understand why you are still interested in her. What does it matter who she is with? Or, is it possible that you are still in love with her? Why bother with someone who isn't interested in you? I give you what our little prima donna would not give, and do so willingly."

Raoul accepted the wine and took a sip. "I'm sorry, my pet. It's not that I love her; I'm just worried about her, that's all. She's still so young and impressionable, not mature in the ways of the world as you are. I owe it to her to look out for her, even if she doesn't want me to."

"How noble of you," Meg cooed.

He reached up and pulled Meg back down next to him, and began trailing kisses up her neck, behind her ear, his hands exploring her body under the flimsy dressing gown, which was all she was wearing, distracting her as he spoke.

"It's just that this madman has some sort of unnatural hold over her. Perhaps it's Mesmerism, or animal magnetism.i We were friends once, a long time ago. Even though there's nothing between us now, I still feel it my duty to protect, to fulfill the promise I made to her father as he lay dying."

That last statement surprised Meg. "You knew Christine's father?" She suspected that he was lying, but had already made up her mind to play along with his game.

"Yes. We saw each other many times when the two of them were living in Perros. I gave him my word that I would watch over his daughter, protect her. It is, after all, the honorable thing to do."

"But of course," she purred, wrapping her arms around him, enjoying the feel of his hard body beneath his clothes. She started unbuttoning his shirt. Meg could not have cared less about Christine and her masked lover. She was much happier having the vicomte to herself, but had decided that by working with Raoul, he would see that she was the much better choice. "So, my pet, what is it you want me to do?"

"Do?"

"You wouldn't be telling me all of this unless there was something you wanted me to do." She gave him a meaningful look, one that said she understood the game they were playing.

"You need only keep an eye on Christine. Let me know if you hear anything about this fiancé of hers –where he lives, where I might find him."

"And what are you going to do when you find him?"

He combed his fingers through her hair, lavishing her with more kisses. "Leave that to me. No need to worry your pretty little head over such matters."

Meg gave out a husky, throaty laugh. "Are you going to hurt him?"

Raoul pretended to be shocked. "Why, of course not! I shall simply persuade him to leave Christine, and Paris. Will you do this for me?"

"I'll think about it. But for now, no more talk. I'm eager for some bed sport," she said, welcoming him into her arms and her bed . . .

-0-0-0-

An uneasy truce existed between Christine and Raoul. He still frequented the opera house, but he saw to it that he kept his distance from her. Through the rest of January and into February, he let Meg be his eyes and ears. Yet in spite of her best efforts, it all seemed to be in vain.

Several times, she tried to worm her way into Christine's confidence and convince the other woman that she was in fact her friend. She made several efforts to engage Christine in little woman-to-woman talks, pretending to have just noticed the gold ring she was wearing.

"Oh, Christine! Is that an engagement ring?" she had asked, all smiles. "How exciting! Who is he? Is it someone I know? Someone here at the opera house? Oh, I'll bet I know who it is. It's Anatole Garron, isn't it!"

"No, it's not Anatole," Christine blushed and smiled. "I can't say yet. We're keeping it a secret for a little while, but soon I'll be introducing him to my friends, and when we get married, we'll invite you to the wedding," she promised.

As the weeks went on, Meg thought perhaps Raoul would give up on his futile quest, but he was determined to, as he said, "save Christine from herself." Finally, in late February, Meg's efforts paid off. It was mid-afternoon on a relatively uneventful weekday when she saw Christine returning to her dressing room. As had become her habit, Meg followed at a discreet distance. Making sure no one was around, she took up her post near the dressing room door, listening for voices. Today she was in luck. For once, she heard a conversation taking place. From the tone and timbre of the voice, she could tell that it was a man's, but that was all.

It had to be Christine and her lover, of that she was sure. But how did he get in? Meg hadn't seen him approach, although it was true that she hadn't been there the entire time. It was possible that he may have snuck in earlier and been waiting for her. Kneeling down and peering through the keyhole, she adjusted her position and managed to get a decent view of the room's interior. From her vantage point, she could see two chairs in the middle of the room. Christine was in one of them, facing the door, while her mystery man was in the other, his back to Meg. When he turned his head, Meg saw that he wore a mask. There was no doubt about it now – he was Christine's escort to the _bal masqué _back on New Year's Eve, the man Raoul wanted to know more about. Placing her ear to the door, Meg remained as still as possible so she could make out their words.

-0-0-0-

"I will have several days off at the end of the week, and if we take the train that will give us plenty enough time," Christine explained, trying to persuade Erik to come with her to Perros after Saturday's dress rehearsal. "I do so want to introduce you to my foster mother. You said yourself that you hoped to meet her someday. I've written her and told her of our engagement, and she's written back saying that she is eager to meet you."

Erik, of course, hated the whole idea. "You've been writing your foster mother about me?" he asked, his mind churning as he started wondering what might have been in those letters.

Christine laughed, reaching over to take his hand in hers. "Stop fussing. Of course, I have. You don't think I'd keep my engagement a secret from her, do you? Besides, she's known about you all along. I was always telling her about you, how we met, how you've been my teacher."

He swallowed hard. "You told her all _that_? No doubt she's concerned that you've gotten yourself involved with a lunatic."

"That's not true. If it were, she would have done her best to talk me out of associating with you a long time ago. Mamma can be very persuasive."

"How reassuring," he mumbled under his breath. "Would it be impertinent of me to ask what you told her?"

"Even if it were, I would tell you anyway. I've told her you are loving, and caring, and noble, and kind. I wrote her that your eyes sparkle when you laugh, and that you have a sharp wit. You are creative and passionate, and when you sing the angels weep."

He looked at her, feeling both humbled and proud at such praise because he knew she meant every word of it. "I mean . . . about this," he said, indicating his face. "You told her about my face?"

"I only told her that you were born with an unfortunate disfigurement, and for that reason you are shy about appearing in public. Erik, it's nothing to be ashamed of. Mamma understands."

He berated himself for being such a fool, at not having foreseen this development. Of course, she would want to introduce him to her foster mother, would tell her about him. Isn't that what happened with ordinary people? He _wanted_ to believe Christine when she said that his face didn't matter; more than that, he _needed_ to believe her. Clenching and unclenching his hands, he got up from the chair and began pacing the room. There was no way around it. He was going to have to meet Mamma Valérius. Taking a deep breath and exhaling slowly, he finally said, "Very well. I shall go with you."

"Oh, Erik!" Christine cried in delight as she jumped up from her chair and, throwing her arms around his neck, planted the biggest, loudest kiss on his lips.

That broke the tension, and Erik couldn't help but join in her joyous enthusiasm. "I have a feeling I am going to regret this."

"No you won't, Erik. It's going to be fun! Now, let's sit down and make our plans. Today is Tuesday. We won't be leaving until Saturday, after rehearsal."

Outside, Meg left to find Raoul.

-0-0-0-

**Another Historical Note (because I just can't resist including them from time to time!):**

Just a quick note on the term "animal magnetism." The term did not have quite the same meaning in the 19th century as it does today.At that time it was a synonym for mesmerism, or hypnotism. In the18th century the term was used for the supposed ethereal medium postulated by Franz Mesmer as a therapeutic agent. Its existence was examined by a French royal commission in 1784, and the commission concluded there was no evidence of its existence or efficacy of the animal magnetic fluid, and that its effects derived from either the imaginations of its subjects or charlatanry.


	15. The Trap is Sprung

**Chapter 14  
The Trap is Sprung**

**-0-0-0-**

_Thursday_

_La Coq d'or _was one of the less reputable Parisian establishments, indistinguishable from many another rundown tavern except for the sign that hung out front with its weathered painting of a ferocious yellow fighting rooster – a golden cock with long spurs. Raoul de Chagny, dressed as inconspicuously as possible, entered the decrepit building and took a seat at a corner table recessed deep within the shadows of the room. A barmaid of dubious appearance came over to take his order, then left.

"I understand you're lookin' for me?"

Raoul glanced up to see a disreputable-looking man had entered the room and taken the seat across from him, a hairy brute with crooked yellow teeth. He did not anticipate dealing with the likes of this man, but under the circumstances, it couldn't be helped.

"Perhaps. Are you the same Jean-Claude Fournier who is employed as a guard at Monsieur Delacroix's lunatic asylum outside of Paris?"

"It ain't a lunatic asylum. It's a 'sanitarium'," the other man said last word derisively. "And whadya wanna know for?"

"I thought you might be interested in making some extra money. I'm told the pay's not much at a place like that."

Fournier shrugged. "It's not all bad. We manage to make a few extra _sous_ now and then, showin' off the loonies. People love to see the crazies, 'specially the women. Makes 'em all shivery and wantin' to be protected and such." He gave Raoul a leering wink, as if the two men were sharing a treasured secret. Then he looked hard at Raoul, studying him as they spoke. "Who told you about me?"

Raoul was deliberately evasive. "An acquaintance for whom you once performed a similar service," he said, not caring to mention his brother's name. "Let's just leave it at that."

"Sounds fair," Fournier said, having already checked out de Chagny, wanting to know who was hiring him to do his dirty work. It never hurt to be too careful, especially in this kind of business. He smiled crookedly at de Chagny. "You gonna buy me a drink, or are you too cheap to spend a little money on your hired help?" Raoul motioned to the barmaid. "Jus' have her bring the whole bottle and a clean glass. I hate drinkin' from a dirty one," Fournier laughed.

Raoul paid the exorbitant price for the whisky and, when the barmaid left, continued. "I'm told that you can be relied upon to do the job right. I have need of your services, and am willing to pay well. There's a madman running loose at the opera house, frightening the young ladies there. He needs to be removed."

Fournier just snorted. "Then whadya need me for? Have the loony committed."

"It is a matter of great delicacy involving a young lady who is very dear to me. If the matter were to appear in the public records, it could tarnish her reputation."

The burley man just laughed. "I see it now. You're in love with the little lady yerself, eh, good Monsieur? Wantin' to get rid of the competition?" He didn't need an answer from Raoul to know that he'd struck a nerve; he could tell by the look on his face. "Not that it matters to me. Well now, lemme see," he went on, scratching his head as if considering whether to accept the job, "it'll cost you."

Raoul named an amount that he knew would be too big for Fournier to refuse. Reaching inside his coat, he pulled out a purse. "Here," he said, placing the bag on the table. "This is your down payment. You'll receive the rest when the job's completed."

Fournier picked up the purse and hefted it, satisfied with its weight. "Good. I like the feel of coins jinglin' in my pocket." He set the purse on his lap, out of sight from nosey onlookers, and inspected the contents, biting down on a couple of the coins to make sure they were genuine.

"Will you be able to handle a job like this?"

"Don' worry yerself 'bout any of that. I know how to care o' things," Fournier said brusquely. "I know me a couple of fellas who're up to a job like this." He looked across the table and grinned cruelly, exposing his crooked teeth as he held out his hand to seal the bargain.

Raoul reluctantly accepted the handshake, eager to put as much distance between himself and this place, and wash its stench off of him as soon as his business here was completed.

"Don' go getting' all fancy on me now," Fournier mocked. "Your hands'll be just as bloody as mine."

The two having come to an agreement, Raoul leaned across the table. "Now here's what I want you to do…"

-0-0-0-

_Saturday _

Erik looked at his pocket watch. It was still several hours before dress rehearsal would be concluded, then he and Christine would have dinner and head for the train station. He had convinced himself that all would be fine, that he was actually going to enjoy himself on this trip, but he couldn't quell the butterflies in his stomach. Pacing about the house, he decided what he needed most was a breath of fresh air. Grabbing his coat from the hook by the door, he headed up and out the door on the Rue Scribe side of the building.

-0-0-0-

Fournier and two associates were standing across the street, hiding in the shadows as they went over their plans.

"What did your friend say this fellow looks like," one of the men asked Fournier.

"Tall, dark hair, forty-ish, an' wears a mask over the right side of his face."

The first man nudged Fournier in the ribs and pointed to someone who had just come out of the building and was hanging around in the shadows outside of the opera house. "Look over there, Jean-Claude."

Fournier slapped his partners on the back and laughed softly. "Our man's makin' it easy for us."

-0-0-0-

Erik looked up at the overcast sky, wondering if the light flurries that were now falling would turn into a heavier snow by nightfall. That might slow down the train to Perros. He pulled out his watch and checked it yet again, surprised that only five minutes had passed since the last time he had looked. He ambled about in the shadows of the opera house, feeling nervous as a mother hen, telling himself over and over again that the visit to Christine's foster mother would not be as bad as he kept imagining it would be.

He glanced at the street. All was quiet with very little traffic about, the snow apparently keeping many people indoors. If there had been more traffic, he might not have heard the footsteps approach from behind. As it happened, he heard them, but not soon enough to ward off a blinding blow to the back of his head that sent him sprawling onto the snowy ground.

"Whadja cosh him so hard for? You know we're supposed to deliver him alive, not dead."

The voices were fading in and out as he tried to shake off the vertigo and the pain. He went to push himself up from the ground but a boot shoved him down again. Before he could react, someone grabbed his arms and pinned them hard behind his back. His wrists were tightly bound, the fibers of the rope cutting into his flesh. A second person yanked his head by the hair and stuffed a gag into his mouth. He tried unsuccessfully to cushion his fall as he was released and allowed to collapse to the ground. More ropes were being tightened around his ankles as they were lashed together. Dazed and immobilized, Erik lay on the cold, frosty ground, trying to grasp was happening to him – and why.

"Easy as pie, Fournier," he heard one of his assailants say as the man tugged on the ropes, checking his bindings. Lying powerless, Erik could only watch as three pairs of feet walked into his view. One of them came closer, booted feet standing only inches from his face.

"Whadya gonna do now?" one of his cronies called out. "Shouldn't we just put him in the carriage and leave before somebody sees us?"

"Just keep an eye peeled. I wanna see what he's hidin' beneath this mask," the one called Fournier replied menacingly as he leaned closer. Erik vainly tried to pull his head back as Fournier's squat, dirty hand reached towards his face. With one quick move, his assailant snatched the leather mask and tossed it aside. Pinning him to the ground with a knee to the chest, Fournier grabbed Erik's face between his hands as he took a good, hard look. "You are one ugly son of a bitch, aren't you?" Fournier laughed before letting him go. "Gimme that pillow case," he said to his partners. "Don't need him lookin' at me an' making' me sick."

Erik could feel his gorge rising as he tried futilely to escape his bonds. Indignant with fury, he wanted to lunge at Fournier and rip the smile from the sadistic bastard's face, but they had him too well secured. All he got for his efforts was another blow before an old pillow case was shoved down over his head. The gag and the rancid smell of the pillow case were making it difficult for him to breathe. Lost in blackness and weakened by pain, he struggled to no avail as he was dragged across the snowy ground and into a waiting coach. The last thing he heard before losing consciousness was Fournier's voice.

"Now the Vicomte can have 'is little song bird all to hisself, without some sideshow freak interferin' with his plans."

-0-0-0-

Christine was worried. Erik had promised to meet her in her dressing room after rehearsal, but when she got here, he was no where to be seen. She looked around the room, but found no signs that he had even been there. More puzzled than worried, she decided to go down below, assuming that he had become engrossed in one of his compositions and simply forgotten the time. Activating the mechanism that opened the mirror, she made her way to the underground lake. The boat was not docked on her side, indicating that if he had come upstairs, it had not been by this route. With no means of crossing without the boat, she retraced her steps. Walking over to the Rue Scribe side of the building, she took the stairs to the cellars and Erik's house.

Once there, all appeared normal, with everything in readiness for dinner. The gaslights were lit, vases were filled with fresh-cut flowers obviously purchased from a florist, and the table was set for two. In the kitchen, she found a bottle of chilled champagne and previously-prepared food waiting to be served. The whole house had the look of its master having stepped out momentarily, with every intention on returning soon. Christine decided to wait. She waited … and waited. Eventually, the chiming of the clock on the mantle told her it was midnight.

Chilling dread was growing inside her. Erik had never been late like this before – never. Not once in all the time she had known him had he kept her waiting. She got up and took another walk around the house, looking desperately for a clue – any clue – as to what might have happened. All manner of horrible thoughts flooded her mind. What if he had become ill or injured? He was always joking about how old he was. What if he had been stricken down while on the stairs and fell into the lake and . . . drowned? A scream tried to escape from her lungs, but she choked it back and forced herself to remain calm, to think of what she needed to do next.

By now, it was obvious that something, somewhere, had gone terribly wrong. But what? Reluctantly accepting that she would learn nothing more by staying at Erik's house, she prepared to go home to her apartment. But before she left, she found pen and paper and wrote a note to Erik, hoping against hope that this would all be explained in the morning, that this would all turn out to be a silly misunderstanding. Securing the house before she left, she made her way back up the stairs.

Never before had she felt so strangely alone, not even when her father had died. It was like being lost, like being a ship adrift at sea without an anchor. Erik was her anchor. Without him, she felt empty and devoid of purpose. Grasping at straws, on the chance that he might still have simply stepped out and been detained somewhere, she decided to take a quick walk around the outside of the building.

_Maybe I'll run into him returning late from some errand. He'll be apologizing, thinking I'm upset with him_ she thought. _When I find him, I'll pretend to be angry, then kiss him and tell him I forgive him_.

Knowing that he would most likely have left via the Rue Scribe exit, she headed out in that direction. Outside snow was falling, the light, fluffy flakes dancing in the street lights. She walked around the building, finding no sign of Erik. She was about to give up when a patch of something dark against the white ground caught her eye. She walked over and bent down to investigate. Her stomach lurched when she realized that the stains near the door were blood.

_It could be anything_, she tried to convince herself, _a wounded animal might have crossed this way, a stray cat or dog_. But her instincts told her differently. Now that she had an idea of what she was looking for, she made a closer inspection of the ground. There, partially hidden under the newly-fallen snow, were the remains of footprints, several sets in fact, as well as marks that might have been made by something being dragged. Icy fingers clutched at her heart when she saw something else. Lying off to the side, partially covered in snow, was Erik's mask.

Actually, _Le Coq d'or_ is one of my favorite Russian operas, written by that master of musical orchestration and color, Nicolay Rimsky-Korsakov. The opera wasn't written until 1907. I just thought it would make a great name for a tavern.


	16. Shocking Revelations

**Chapter 15  
Shocking Revelations**

It was Sunday morning, and Christine awoke not remembering when or how she had gotten home, much less going to bed. The she had even managed to sleep at all was something of a minor miracle, considering her state of mind. Easing herself out of bed, she performed her regular morning ablutions more out of habit than from any conscious effort. All she could think of was Erik, that somewhere he might be injured…or worse. What troubled her most was the suspicion that foul play was involved – why else those obvious signs of a struggle outside the opera house?

Struggling to keep such thoughts at bay, she went to the kitchen. There she prepared her morning cup of hot cocoa. She needed to follow her normal routine, else she would not know what to do with herself. Sitting and staring at the cup of hot beverage, she tried to work out what she needed to do next. Needing something to help her concentrate, she got a pencil and some paper and began writing whatever came to mind.

One of the first things that came to mind was that Mamma was still expecting them. By this time, she might even be worried that they had not arrived on the morning train. So, contacting Mamma became the first item on her list. A small sense of satisfaction came over her that she had at least managed to think this much through so far. As soon as she finished her list, she would go to the telegraph office and wire Mamma, explaining that an unforeseen complication had arisen and that she and Erik would not be coming as planned. She hesitated to tell Mamma everything just yet; she did not want to worry her, especially as there was so little to tell.

Trying to decide what she needed to do next, she glanced over at the counter and saw Erik's mask staring back at her from where she had set it last night. The sight of it, empty and forlorn, ripped at her heart, and she struggled to maintain her composure. Falling into a puddle of sobs and self-pity would do neither of them any good. She needed to keep her wits about her if she was going to help him. Getting up from the table, she walked over to the counter. Picking up the mask, she took it to her bedroom and carefully put it away in her dresser drawer so it would not distract her. Returning to the kitchen, she returned to her list.

She considered the possibility of reporting Erik as a missing person, but dismissed that thought almost immediately. Erik was not like everybody else. He lived in isolation from society with a home below the opera house. He had a mysterious past, part of which he had shared with her. If she were perfectly honest with herself, she would have to admit that he was probably guilty of extortion to some degree, even though he had assured her that the request for 20,000 francs a month from the opera house management was merely a suggestion. Thinking about that monthly stipend almost made her want to laugh. If Erik managed to get out of whatever scrape he had gotten himself into, she was going to see to it that he mended his ways and earned an honest living. Besides, she just realized, she didn't even know his last name. No, reporting Erik missing to the police was not something she could do.

Neither was asking around at the opera house. She could not go up to the people there and ask, "Pardon me, but have you seen the Opera Ghost lately?" Most of them would laugh, except perhaps Meg's mother, and Christine had her doubts as to the woman's veracity, not to mention her sanity. Erik had very little good to say about Mme Giry, describing her as a superstitious old woman who readily believed the stories of a ghost inhabiting Box Five on the grand tier. Richard and Moncharmin? Neither of them would care if OG disappeared for good, regardless of the circumstances. In fact, they would most assuredly be quite pleased if he quit haunting the place. As for Raoul? After that fiasco at the masked ball, Christine had little doubt that he would clap his hands in glee if she told him what happened.

She sighed. Her task of finding out what happened to Erik seemed daunting, but she could not just sit back and ring her hands, wailing, "Woe is me." She was not that kind of person; she needed to do something. Even though asking around the opera house or going to the police were rule out, there had to be something she could do. Then it came to her.

She would visit all the hospitals, making inquiries. She would explain that her "brother" was missing. His appearance could be explained by saying that he was a veteran of the late war with Prussia, and that he had been severely wounded during the siege of Paris, his injuries leaving him with a badly scarred face and suffering from bouts of amnesia. As the worried sister, she would tell them that he did not come home Saturday night and she was worried that he may have been in an accident. If a search of the hospitals proved unsuccessful, then her next step might be to go to the police with the same story.

A horrible thought entered her mind at that moment. What if Erik had been killed and his body dumped somewhere? Dear God, what would she do then? It sickened her to think that she might actually have to visit the city's morgue, but she would do whatever she had to do, no matter how distressing.

Finally having made up her mind as to a course of action, her next task was to explain her absence from the opera house for the next few days. Taking another piece of paper, she wrote a note to Monsieur Villeneuve, apologizing for her absence, saying that she had come down with a very high fever and was doubtful that she would be able to rehearse until later in the week. She assured him she would inform him in the event she would be out past Wednesday, hoping that by then she would have a better idea of what had happened – one way or the other.

-0-0-0-

Dejected, Christine returned to the opera house on Thursday, knowing no more than she had on Saturday. No, she told herself, that wasn't true. Over the course of the past three days, she had visited every hospital in Paris, only to learn that Erik had not been admitted to any of them. Following her list, she next called at the police station. There she was informed that no one matching her "brother's" description had been involved in an accident – at least none that had been reported to them – nor had his body shown up at the city morgue. The memories of the corpses and their stench were still vivid. She wondered if she would ever be able to get them out of her mind.

Anyone looking at her would have had no difficulty in believing she had truly been ill. The past days had left their imprint on her face, with dark shadows under her eyes and a sallowness to her complexion. Having few remaining options, she decided it was time to talk to the box keeper.

"Madame Giry, may I have a word with you?" she asked the old woman in the black taffeta dress, the color of which was rapidly turning to rust and lilac.i The grey-haired woman turned and looked at Christine as if noticing her for the first time. "You're the Daaé girl, are you not? I've seen you around."

Christine tried to remain polite, even though her nerves were frayed and this dotty old woman was acting as if this was the first time the two of them had ever spoken. "Yes, Mme Giry. I am Christine Daaé. I was wondering if you could spare me a few minutes of your time?"

"Not at all, young lady. As long as you don't mind following me around. I was just going up to the grand tier to check on Box Five, to ensure all is ready for M. Opera Ghost."

Christine caught her breath. Was it possible that Mme Giry knew something after all? "You are preparing his box? Then, has he been in contact with you?"

The old woman frowned. "No, as a matter of fact, he's been unusually quiet. I have not received word from him all week. Normally, he will leave me several notes throughout the week with whatever instructions he wishes passed on to the managers – oh and a box of candy for me." She smiled at the thought of those delicious bonbons he frequently left her. "Quite odd, actually. But I suppose he's just busy."

"Busy? Doing what?"

"However should I know, my dear young lady?"

"Then, you have no idea where he might be?" asked Christine, crestfallen.

The old woman looked at Christine as if she were the one who was batty. "But of course I know where he is. He is with all the other ghosts, doing whatever it is they do when they're not listening to the operas!"

Christine frowned. It was little wonder Erik had nothing good to say about the woman, she thought as she thanked Mme Giry for her time. As she went to leave, Christine noticed Meg standing nearby. The look on the ballerina's face told her that the young woman had been listening in on their conversation.

"Do you know anything about this, Meg?"

Meg feigned innocence. "I haven't any idea what you are referring to. Now if you will excuse me, I have an appointment with the Vicomte de Chagny."

-0-0-0-

Returning home that evening, Christine sat down and wrote to Mamma Valérius again, this time telling her all that had happened, and that she was at her wits' end.

"How is your fiancée these days, Mademoiselle?"

Christine was doing her warm-up exercises and turned to see Raoul was once again visiting the opera house. She could not help but notice a smugness to his demeanor. In fact, he seemed to be positively gloating about something. She looked around, noticing that the others on the stage were watching their exchange with great curiosity. More than a few had heard rumors of the fracas that had erupted between the Vicomte de Chagny and Mlle Daaé's mysterious fiancé.

"He is fine," was all she would say. "Should he be otherwise?"

Raoul sauntered over in her direction. "Oh, I don't know. It's just that no one has seen him around lately, that's all."

"He is a very private person, Monsieur le Vicomte," she said formally.

"Funny thing, no one's heard from the Opera Ghost lately, either. Do you suppose the two are connected?"

Christine could almost feel the blood drain from her face. It was obvious that Meg had told him about her earlier conversation with Mme Giry. She waited for him to explain himself, but Raoul said nothing more and simply smiled at her. Whatever game he was playing, it was evident that he knew a lot more than he was letting on. In fact, she realized, he was toying with her. Resentment grew inside her, and all she wanted to do was wipe the smug look off his face.

"I have no idea what you are talking about," she replied angrily and quickly walked away.

She fumed as she left the stage, looking for a quiet spot where she could gather her thoughts. Raoul's remarks just now were obviously no coincidence. She hated to admit it, but she was coming to the conclusion that his recent behavior and Erik's disappearance were in some way connected. But how was she going to find out? There was no way she could ask him. What she needed to do was remain quiet and unobtrusive while observing and listening to others. In that way, she might yet learn the truth. Raoul was so arrogant that he did not seem to care that she knew he was involved. In fact, it seemed that it was all he could do to keep from bragging about whatever it was he had done. Sooner or later, he would slip…

-0-0-0-

In spite of Christine's personal turmoil, business at the Opera House went forth as usual. It was Saturday, one week since Erik had disappeared, and the company was preparing for the season's final performance of _Faust_.

The morning post had brought with it a reply from Mamma Valérius. Christine read it eagerly. Mamma wrote that she was sorry to learn what had happened, and ended her letter by saying, _"There must be someone you trust, Christine, someone your gentleman would want you to turn to if you were in need, and he himself were not there to help you."_ Someone she could trust. But who could that be?

With Mamma's note in mind, she arrived at the opera early that day, wanting to be alone in her dressing room as she prepared mentally as well as physically for her role. This would be the first time she had sung since Erik vanished, and she was not sure how the events of this past week would affect her voice.

En route to her room, she passed the managers' office and noticed that the door was ajar. Her pace slowed down when she heard a conversation between Messieurs Moncharmin and Richard, and their favorite patron, the Vicomte de Chagny, taking place. At first, she thought it was the usual twaddle. Then she caught mention of name "OG." Hoping that this could be the clue she was seeking, she quietly stepped to the side of the door and out of sight, and listened. It was if the air around her grew cold as she heard them laugh over how easily the infamous Opera Ghost had been captured.

"That madman will trouble you no more," she heard Raoul say. "As a matter of fact, I received this letter only yesterday." Watching through the crack between the door and the wall, she saw him pull an envelope from his inside coat pocket. Withdrawing a paper with great flourish, he began reading a portion of its contents to the other two men.

"_The director, M. Delacroix, wishes to inform you of the arrival of the patient recently sent to our institution, and to thank you for your generous monetary contribution towards his care. We are taking every precaution with this patient. Knowing his past history of violence, we have placed him in a secure ward within our facility where he is being kept isolated from the other patients and under constant supervision. In accordance with our regimen with such cases, the patient is receiving a simple diet…" _

Oh, dear God! Christine wanted to faint. She could not believe what she was hearing, that Raoul could have stooped to such lowness. True, they had had their differences; she had even suspected that Raoul knew something of what had happened, but had kept hoping against hope that she was mistaken, that Raoul was simply a jealous young man taking advantage of his rival's disappearance. Unfortunately, it now appeared as though her worst fears were realized – Raoul not only knew what happened, but was in fact responsible. She listened some more.

"… _the patient's propensity towards violence has prevented medical treatment of the wounds he obtained during his transportation. He is being restrained for his own protection and that of the staff__."_

"The rest is unimportant," Raoul concluded as he refolded the letter and went to place it back into his inside pocket. Watching carefully, Christine observed something the three men did not, that instead of resting in Raoul's pocket, the letter had in fact slipped out and fallen onto the floor.

"Being locked away in a sanitarium is the only place for such as him!" Raoul said with artificial concern.

Moncharmin and Richard agreed. "Wouldn't it be better if he were to, you know, die…accidentally?" one of them asked.

Raoul rebuked the two of them, his voice laced with sarcasm. "How uncharitable to even think such a thing!"

"Yes. Yes, of course," the two mumbled almost in unison.

"Uncharitable indeed. The man cannot help what he is. He is ill and deserves to be treated with at least a modicum of decency and Christian charity."

Listening to Raoul's cold-hearted, hypocritical words made Christine sick to her stomach. After a few more comments about more mundane matters, the conversation came to a close and the three were preparing to leave. Slipping away from the door, she hid herself in a narrow alcove off the hallway. As the men left, Raoul walked past her hiding place, close enough for her to hear him say to himself, "Soon, Christine, it will be time for you to make your choice."

Unable to move for several minutes, Christine quietly waited till all were gone and the corridor empty. Returning to the office, she went inside and picked the letter up off the floor. Her first impulse was to keep it, but thought better, realizing that eventually Raoul would notice that it was missing. If he did not find it back in the office, his suspicions might immediately go to her. So she laid it out on the desk and, making use of paper and pen she found in one of the drawers, copied it out word for word. She looked the document over for clues. The heading showed an address somewhere outside of Paris. She did not recognize the place, but at least she had a name and an address. The signature was smeared and all but illegible, indicating it had been hastily written; or, perhaps a guilty conscience had caused a shaking hand to obscure the name.

She was not sure whom she should contact about this now. Perhaps a private consulting detective? If so, who? No matter whom she sought out, at least she would have something concrete to show. If necessary, she would go to this "sanitarium" herself and demand Erik's release! Most importantly, she knew that for the present Erik was alive.

When she was finished copying out the letter, she refolded the original and placed it back on the floor where she found it. Taking the copy, she went to her dressing room, and began to prepare for her performance as Marguerite once again.

-0-0-0-

The opera was nearing its conclusion Pietro Sospenzo and Christine, along with bass Andrei Markovii were on stage for the final scene in which the rejuvenated Faust and Mephistopheles come to Marguerite's prison cell to rescue her.iii The tempo of the music quickened as the devil urged them to hurry to the horses waiting to carry them off to freedom.

"_Beware! Beware!  
__Or you are lost!  
__If you delay any more,  
__I won't have anything more to do with you!"_

Christine had no idea how she had managed to make it thus far, but make it she had. The music surrounded her, flowed through her, taking on a life of its own. Not only was she able to perform, but was giving such depth and feeling to her performance that the audience was caught up in her performance. Over and over, Marguerite's words mirrored her own feelings.

"_The demon! Do you see him? There, in the shadow  
__Staring at us with his burning eyes?  
__What does he want of us?  
__Expel him from this sacred place!"_

Christine hated herself for having misread Raoul de Chagny. How could she have been so blind? She had thought him simply an impetuous young man. He had fooled her once, but no more. Her pulse quickened as the music grew more insistent. She could hear Markov's voice now, as Mephistopheles cajoled Faust to "leave this murky place." Falling to her knees, Christine sang Marguerite's heartfelt prayer.

"_My God, protect me!  
__My God, I implore you!"_

All the while, she was silently imploring her own prayer to God for Erik's safety.

_Dear God, protect him!  
__Dear God, I implore you!_

The words swirled through her mind, and Christine could not keep back the thoughts of her own angel whose life was in deadly peril. Tears streamed down her cheeks as she looked up at the vacant Box Five. The audience was entranced; never had they seen an artist so enrapt in her role!

"_Pure, shining angels!  
__Bear my soul to Heaven's bosom!  
__Just God, I surrender myself to Thee!  
__Kind God, I am Thine! Forgive me!"_

Like Marguerite, who finally saw her seducer and his companion for what they were, Christine had finally seen Raoul for what he was. If only it wasn't too late. When Faust called out to Marguerite one last time, Christine looked off into the wings and caught sight of Raoul talking to Richard and Moncharmin, their heads together as if plotting more mischief. At that moment, Raoul raised his head and looked over at Christine. Then he smiled at her, a smile that filled her with fear and loathing.

_Why those hands red with blood?_ she sang, directing Marguerite's words at him. _Go! You fill me with horror! _she shouted, looking directly at the vicomte instead of Sospenzo.

Her emotions close to erupting, Christine nearly swooned on the stage. The opera finished with Marguerite's salvation and Faust's damnation. The audience erupted, standing on their feet as they clapped and cheered, but when curtain calls were made, Christine Daaé was nowhere to be seen.

* * *

**Author's Notes:**

All right, so Markov is actually a defenseman for the Montreal Canadiens, but who's counting?

_Faust_, a grand opera in five acts by Charles Gounod, to a libretto by Jules Barbier and Michel Carré (after Geothe.) It was first performed in Paris in 1859 and is one of the most popular operas ever written. The English translations I am using for the lyrics are from the libretto included in the CD recording of this opera as performed by Joan Sutherland, Franco Corelli and Nicholai Ghiaurov, with Richard Bonynge and the London Symphony Orchestra.


	17. An Offer of Help

**Chapter 16  
****An Offer of Help**

**-0-0-0-**

Christine sat at her dresser, able at last to indulge in the free flow of tears she had been trying to hold back throughout the evening's performance. The curtains had barely closed when she had hurried off the stage, ignoring cast and crew calling out to her as she had fled to her room. Wrapping her arms around her waist, she rocked to and fro as she sobbed, lost in anguish and torment. At last, the gentle, persistent knocking at her dressing room door brought her out of the fog. She tried ignoring the sound, certain that it was Raoul. But whoever it was, they were not going away. Finally, she had no choice but to call out, "Who is it?"

"It's Anatole. Christine, are you all right? You looked rather pale back on stage, and then you were not on stage for your curtain calls."

There was a long silence in which nothing was said. Sitting in her chair, Christine fought to regain control of her emotions, desperately needing to talk to someone. It was true that Anatole had been her friend since joining the company. She berated herself mentally. How could she have overlooked him when she was searching for help? Perhaps at last she had found the person Mamma was referring to when she wrote, _"There must be someone you trust, Christine, someone your gentleman would want you to turn to if you were in need, and he himself were not there to help you." _

"Christine," she heard him call her name again when she didn't respond, "are you ill?"

Forcing in a deep breath, she willed herself to be calm. She opened one of the dresser drawers and fumbled for a handkerchief to dry her eyes. Satisfied that she could manage a conversation with Anatole, she got up and unlocked the door, opening it a crack. Peering out, she could see that Anatole was patiently waiting, still in costume as Marguerite's brother, Valentin, and looking as dashing and handsome as always with his dark wavy hair combed back and pencil-thin mustache adding an air of sophistication to his looks. Behind him was the usual crowd of admirers. Thankfully, Raoul was not among them, at least not yet.

"May I come in, or would you prefer to talk in the hallway with all these people?" he asked softly.

She gave him a shaky nod, and opened the door wide enough for him to pass through. "Please, come in," she said, then immediately closed and locked the door once more. Inside, she offered him one of the two chairs in the room. Not knowing how to start, she sat silently in the other, her hands clasped in her lap as she kept her eyes down.

Garron thought it unusual for her to lock the door, but said nothing for the moment, allowing her a chance to explain what was going on. He was disturbed to notice that she looked pale and wan. It was not even a week since she had been forced to remain home with a fever, and he suspected that she was not fully recovered. Moreover, he had seen the young singer crying several times this past week when she thought no one was looking. His sixth sense kept telling him that there was more to this than being sick.

"Christine, it's not like you to miss your curtain calls. I couldn't help but notice that something has been worrying you these days, and…well, I was wondering if I could help you in any way."

She looked into Anatole's eyes, trying to gauge just how much, if anything, she should tell him.

_There must be someone you trust, Christine_…

"It's nothing…really," she spoke hesitantly.

"Are you sure? You look as though you could use a friend right now. Is it Carlotta? Or maybe that Giry girl?" She shook her head. "You know, if often helps to talk about a problem. You know you can trust me to keep whatever you tell me confidential. I'm worried about you."

She refused to look at him, and choked back another sob that threatened to escape. "I know," she answered softly, quietly wringing her hands in her lap. If he said one more word, offered one more kindness, she would not be able to keep the tears from flowing once more. She wanted so much to confide in him. But would it be right to drag this kind man into her problems? If what she suspected was true, there could be danger involved.

_There must be someone you trust, Christine… _

"I … I thank you for offering, Anatole, but," she whispered, struggling to get the words out, "I really don't wish to burden you with my problems…"

"Nonsense. We're friends, aren't we? Isn't that what friends do – help one another?"

She looked up and smiled meekly, blinking back tears that were ready to spill from her eyes.

"Have you had a fight with your beau?" he asked, wondering if her misery was over a lover's quarrel.

"No," she cried, and the floodgates opened as the tears fell unimpeded. Her hands flew up and covered her face, and her small shoulders trembled with great, heaving sobs. "Oh, God… I don't know what to do! Oh, Erik…"

"Christine…" Anatole quickly rose and was directly at her side. He went down on one knee front of her and put his arms around her shoulders, holding her, comforting her. He said nothing right away, just made soft shushing sounds as he let her cry herself out. Seeing the handkerchief on her dresser, he reached over for it and handed it to her.

"This is about your fiancé," Anatole said, breaking the silence in the room.

She looked up, her eyes red and swollen, and nodded.

"Is he ill?"

"No, he's…he's missing, and I fear something terrible has befallen him." Her voice was so soft, so quiet he could barely hear her.

"Why do you think something has happened to Erik?"

She remained silent, refusing to speak further.

"Christine, please, you know you can trust me, don't you? You know I want to help you."

"Do you?" she asked, her voice so low he could hardly hear her. "Yes…of course you do." She took a deep breath. Looking around the room, knowing that Raoul was somewhere in the building still, she came to a decision. "We cannot talk here," she said with more force, finally making up her mind to trust Anatole. "There are too many people who might overhear what I need to say to you." She kept her voice low, holding onto her composure by only the barest of threads. "Anatole, will you take me home? We can talk there…"

"Why yes, of course." Noticing that they were both still in costume, he suggested they change. "I'll come back for you in a few minutes."

She nodded and saw him to the door, locking it behind him much to the displeasure of her legions of fans. Stepping out of her peasant's costume, she quickly got dressed. A few minutes later, a knock on the door heralded Anatole's return. Assisting her with her coat, he then put his arms protectively around her as they exited the room, allowing her to lean against him for strength. The hall was still crowded, but the throng made way for the pair when Anatole explained that Mlle Daaé was unwell and that he was taking her home, thanking them all for their understanding.

"No need for you to inconvenience yourself, Garron. I shall see to it that Mlle Daaé gets home safely." It was Raoul; the snake had finally shown up.

Christine could not remember ever feeling such raw hatred. She glared at him and said, "I prefer Anatole's company."

Before he could say anything further, Meg stepped forward to claim Raoul's arm, not looking very happy over his offer of help. "Yes, Raoul, let Garron take her home. You and I have a supper engagement, or have you forgotten?"

-0-0-0-

Anatole hailed a cab and the two rode in silence during the short trip to her apartment. Once inside, they both sat down. Christine began telling Anatole what had happened.

"Last Saturday, I was to meet Erik after rehearsal. We were going to go to visit my foster mother in Perros…." She faltered, and Anatole nodded, encouraging her to continue her narrative. The words came tumbling out. "I waited for hours, but he never showed up. I went to his house thinking he had forgotten the time, but no one was there; everything looked as though he had just stepped out." She halted again.

"But he wasn't there, either?"

"No."

"Is it possible that he got cold feet, that he's having second thoughts about the two of you?" Anatole did not think this was really the situation, but it was worth considering.

"No, it's nothing like that." She explained how after she had gone to his house, she returned to the opera house to see if their paths might have crossed, omitting the fact that his house was beneath the opera house. It was better that Anatole think that he had an apartment close by. Then she told of what she found in the snow, the footprints, the trail of something – or someone – being dragged, the blood stains, all where Erik would normally have been waiting for her. "And then there's this," she got up and went into her bedroom, returning with his mask. "I found this near the tracks and blood."

She could not stop now. She had to continue talking, or go mad with worry. Keeping her head lowered, she focused her eyes on the weave of the rug on the floor, and explained, "You saw Erik's face the night of the masquerade, yet you never made any mention of it. I often wondered why."

Anatole folded his hands together, steepling his forefingers together and with his elbows resting on his thighs, pressed them against his lips. He nodded, then said, "It's something I don't talk about very often. I once had a younger brother. Charles was his name. He was always a curious fellow, planned on being a chemist. Our parents even arranged for him to have his own laboratory. He would spend hours experimenting with chemical compounds and such, with every intention of going to university and make a name for himself." A small chuckle came out as Anatole recalled a humorous incident. Then his face grew sad.

"One evening, a few months after his eighteenth birthday, there was a terrible accident in his makeshift laboratory. Something went wrong with one of his experiments. There was an explosion, and he was left badly injured, especially his face. He was never the same after that. The pain was bad enough, but even after he recovered, there were the stares, the unkind remarks behind his back. It was all too much for him. On his twentieth birthday, he took his life." Anatole paused, then finished, "I can understand something of what your fiancé has had to endure."

"I never knew," she said softly.

Anatole shrugged it off, as if to say such is life. "It was long ago. But what about Erik? Was he also injured?"

"No, he was born with that terribly disfigured face. He is very…self-conscious. There is no way he would drop this on the ground and willingly leave it there."

"I can easily understand that."

"Wait, there's more." Christine told him of the conversation she overheard between de Chagny and the managers, and how she copied the letter that had fallen to the floor. She took the copy from her pocket and handed it to him. "I couldn't keep the original without creating suspicions, but I assure you, I copied it word for word."

He read the letter, his brow furrowing as he sought to make sense of its contents. "I don't understand. This letter, together with the other things you've told me all point suspiciously to foul play. Surely the police…You have gone to the police, reported him as missing, haven't you?"

"No, I can't," she admitted.

"But, why not?"

"Remember the Opera Ghost?" she asked.

"You mean the bogey man who is supposed to haunt this building? Of course, but…you don't mean to tell me that it's this Opera Ghost who's supposed to have done away with Erik?" Anatole asked incredulously.

"No. What I'm trying to say is that…is that Erik _is_ the Opera Ghost."

There. She had said it. There was no turning back now. She looked up and saw the disbelief in his eyes.

"No, I'm not mad, and Erik isn't a real ghost. You've seen him yourself; you know he's a man of flesh and blood. It's just that he's…he's very reclusive. It's his face. Through most of his life, he's known only hatred and rejection, all because of his disfigurement. So he turned his back on the world and chose instead to live alone, isolated. But he loves beauty and music, and spends many hours in the fringes of the Opera House, drinking in the sights and sounds. He makes every effort to avoid being seen, but occasionally people have caught a glimpse of him."

"So this is how the stories of the Opera Ghost sprang up? From people catching a glimpse of a shadowy figure in a mask?"

"Yes," she smiled sadly, thinking carefully how to word the rest. "And Erik encourages it. Every little thing that goes wrong, every prank, every mishap is attributed to the Opera Ghost. And Erik? He says he doesn't mind. He says that if people believe he's some sort of ghost, they'll leave him be. But recently I've heard the management say they're tired of having a ghost in the building, and I've warned Erik to be more careful, especially since Joseph Buquet died and everyone started laying the blame at the feet of the Opera Ghost." She looked at Anatole, absolute fear now showing in her eyes. "Now, it looks as though they've done something about it, and I don't know what to do, who to turn to."

Anatole sat quietly for a while as he digested everything she was telling him. "Is this what has made you ill, all this worry?"

"I wasn't ill, Anatole. I was trying to find Erik. I went to the hospitals, thinking that he had been injured or sick. I…I even went to the city morgue to see if…" she couldn't finish, the memories of seeing all that disease and death becoming too much for her.

"Christine, I'm going to call on an old friend and…"

"No!" she shouted in a panic. "You mustn't tell _anyone!_"

"Christine, you've trusted me this far. Won't you trust me a little more and believe me when I say that I would never say or do anything to put you or Erik in danger?"

He walked over to her and took her trembling hands in his, offering her a comforting smile. "My friend is a man of great honor and integrity. His name is Reynard d'Aubert. He graduated near the top of his class from the _École Spéciale Militaire de Saint-Cyr_, and was amember of the Sûreté for many years. He's retired now, and handles the occasional private inquiry to augment his pension. He is extremely discreet. Let me talk to him and see what we can about finding Erik. Will you allow me to do this, Christine?"

"I don't have much of a choice, do I, Anatole?" She signed, and added, "If you trust him, then I shall trust him, too."

They talked a while longer on safer, more comfortable topics before Anatole prepared to leave. "I'm not comfortable leaving you here by yourself. Promise me you will keep your door locked."

"Do you really think that I could be in danger as well?"

"I don't know, but I don't want you to take any chances." She reluctantly agreed. "I'll come by in the morning to see how you're doing. I wish I could stay here the night, but I want to see d'Aubert as quickly as possible."

"At this hour?" she asked, surprised that he would call on this investigator friend of his so late at night.

Anatole smiled. "We've known each other for many years. He'll understand, especially once I've explained the situation to him." He gave her one more hug and a chaste kiss on the forehead. "Good night, Christine. Try to get some sleep."

-0-0-0-

* * *

**Notes: **

If d'Aubert's name sounds vaguely familiar, it is because he is inspired by a similarly-named character in the 1943 _Phantom of the Opera_. In that movie, however, his first name was Raoul. I changed the first name because 1) I didn't want to confuse matters by having two Raouls in my story, and 2) I liked Reynard better. Reynardin French means "fox", a perfect name for a detective who needs to be sly and clever – like a fox!

**_Sûreté_** (French for "security") is a term used in French-speaking countries or regions in the organizational title of a civil police force. Also the former title of the French National Police as _La Sûreté Nationale_. It merely served as the criminal investigative bureau of the Paris police and did not function as a command and control organization. It was founded by Francois-Eugene Vidocq in 1812 and headed until 1827. It is the direct ancestor of Criminal Investigation Department of Scotland Yard, the FBI and other departments of criminal investigation throughout the world. Vidocq was convinced that crime could not be controlled by then-current police methods, so he organized a special branch of the criminal division modeled on Napoleon's political police. The force was to work undercover and its early members consisted largely of reformed criminals. By 1820 – eight years after its formation – it had blossomed into a 30-man team of experts that had decreased the crime rate in Paris by 40.

The **École Spéciale Militaire de Saint-Cyr **(**ESM**, "Special Military School of St Cyr") is the foremost French military academy. It is often referred to as **_Saint-Cyr_**. It's Motto is "Ils s'intruisent pour vaincre". Founded by Napoleon in 1802, and initially located in Fontainebleau, it was moved first to Saint-Cyr l'École in 1808, and then to Coëtquidan (Brittany) in 1945. It's still around.


	18. Descent into Hell

**A great big THANK YOU to everyone who is reading (I've seen the stats; I know you're out there!) and especially to those of you who are taking the time to leave feedback. Now a quick cautionary note -- Erik's situation is about to go from bad to worse. Now that you've been warned, here's chapter 17.**

**HDKingsbury**

**Chapter 17  
Descent into Hell**

**-0-0-0-**

Erik remained still, unmoving. It was hard to concentrate on anything. The blows to his head had left him suffering from repeated episodes of nausea and vomiting, especially if he tried to sit or stand. Sometimes his vision was blurred, and the headaches were nearly insufferable. Gingerly he had felt along his scalp, and found the tender lumps where he'd been struck. Familiar with these symptoms as those of a concussion, Erik knew he needed medical treatment. He also knew that such aid was the last thing he would receive in this place.

He scanned his surroundings for the hundredth time, his eyes accustomed to the weak light. Odd, he thought, that not all that long ago he had willingly embraced the darkness. Now all he wanted to see was the light of the outside world. Instead, he saw the two wooden buckets sitting off in a corner – one his drinking water, the other his toilet. Growing bored with that, he next scrutinized the mortar between the bricks that made up the interior walls, and watched as furry little creatures scurried past. How long had it been since they brought him here? Three or four days? A week? A lifetime?

Over and over, recent events replayed themselves in his mind. It was his own fault for being so foolish, so careless. What did it matter that he had been ignorant of how deep de Chagny's hatred and obsession had grown? He should have known better. If he had learned one lesson in life, it was never to take anything for granted. Yet he had broken his own cardinal rule. He had let down his guard. Hadn't he learned never to trust anyone? A sigh slipped past his lips. Anyone but Christine. He would always trust her, with his life if necessary.

Lying in the cold, unheated cell, on a floor where the only bedding was a handful of old straw, he kept reliving his abduction, driving himself to near madness with self-recriminations. He had been stupid, and now he would pay the ultimate price for his stupidity. Succumbing at last to sleep, his dreams were filled with images of his arrival to this hell on earth…

-0-0-0-

Arriving at their destination, Erik was roused from his stupor. A rising panic washed over him. He was still rendered blind and speechless, and his head throbbed miserably. He was confused by being unable to see what was happening. The ropes binding his ankles were undone, and a tingling sensation crawled along his lower extremities as blood began to circulate once again.

Seized with a vise-like grip on either arm, his abductors pulled him from the carriage. Fighting back the urge to vomit brought on by the sudden movement, Erik was half led, half dragged into a building and taken down a long corridor. He tried to distinguish sounds that provide him with a clue as to where he had been brought, but all he could hear over the ringing in his ears were their own footsteps echoing off the walls. Nearly tripping over his own feet, he was forced down a flight of stairs, struggling to keep his balance in spite of the arms holding him up.

They made their way down another, longer corridor. Breathing was difficult with the gag and dirty pillow cloth still in place. Even so, Erik could smell the kind of damp, musty odors often associated with a cellar, but there was something else, too – the reek of human excrement. Erik balked; he refused to continue. Without even having seen it, he knew they had brought him to some kind of prison. New sounds greeted his ears, pathetic moans and strangled cries, sometimes a hysterical laugh piercing the air. He feared the worst – that this was no ordinary prison, but an insane asylum.

"If the freak don't wanna walk, then drag the son of a bitch in!" he heard Fournier growl.

Again, Erik was unwillingly forced to walk. After several more paces – He tried counting them. Twenty? Thirty? – they halted. Something jingled. Keys on a ring? The screech of hinges announced the opening of a heavy metal door. Without warning, Erik was pushed inside.

He groaned as he stumbled and met a wall. Using it for balance, he eased down onto his knees, straining against the ropes still around his wrists. Vainly he rubbed his head against the wall in an effort to remove the pillowcase from his head and remove the gag from his mouth. Footsteps came closer, and he rolled over, pressing his back against the wall for support and kicking out with his feet, trying to strike back at his abductors. But all he hit was empty air as they laughed at his pathetic efforts.

"Might as well give it up. You ain't goin' anywhere," Fournier cackled malevolently. "You two, keep a tight hold on him till we get things set here. He's a dangerous lunatic. Wouldn't want Monsieur Freak to hurt hisself or anyone else, would we?"

Obscene laughter assailed his ears as two of the thugs grabbed his arms, pinning him to the ground. Erik twisted in their grasp, refusing to give in quietly. Again, he tried to force the gag from his mouth and call out, but to no avail.

"He won't be needin' them fancy clothes in here," one of them said. "Betcha we can get a few sous for this suit. Them boots have gotta be worth somethin', too. And that cloak. Hmm…looks like it's cashmere." There was more laughter and Erik felt himself being patted down as they looked for other valuables. "Hey, lookit what I found. Nice pocket watch. An' them cufflinks. Looks like gold!"

"Yeah. More'n enough to get drunk on!" the other partner snickered.

Hands reached around his face and head and, at last, the blindfold and gag were removed. Erik gulped for air as he endeavored to orient himself. Craning his neck, he was able at last to see the cell they had brought him to – a small, windowless room devoid of any furnishings.

Fournier stepped closer and bent down, putting his face within inches of Erik's. "Go ahead. Scream fer help if ya want. Ain't no one gonna pay you any heed. As far as anyone here's concerned, yer just another bleedin' crazy," he taunted.

The burly man barked an order, and Erik's wrists were untied. With their coarse hands still restraining him, he fought back the feelings of degradation as the thugs stripped him none too gently of all his clothes, not even leaving him the dignity of his under garments. Forcing him aside as they inspected their plunder, Erik sat naked and still dazed in the corner of the room, his knees drawn up with his arms circled 'round them.

"Here, ya miserable turd. This is fer you." Fournier tossed a nondescript piece of clothing in his direction. "Put it on," he ordered.

Erik stared at the cloth, refusing to move, letting it lay on the ground. Instead, he concentrated on what was being done to him. He forced himself to remain detached, recognizing their techniques, studying them. They wanted to debase him, humiliate him, and so break his spirit. Knowing this gave him a mental edge in dealing with the torment they were inflicting upon him. They could break his body, but they would not break his spirit.

"Have it yer way. Jus' tryin' to make it easy on ya If you won't dress yerself, we'll jus' have to do it for ya."

Fournier nodded, and the other two forced him into the coarsely-made hospital gown that barely reached his knees. Maintaining their hold on him, Erik winced as cold metal bit into the tender flesh of his right ankle. He could only watch helplessly as Fournier shackled him to a length of chain that was attached to a hoop fixed into the back wall of the cell. Then his arms were held out in front of him while, adding insult to injury, manacles were clamped onto his wrists. The two louts then stepped back and joined Fournier, grinning at Erik as if admiring their handiwork.

Enraged and unthinking, Erik lost control of his calm and jumped up, rushing his attackers. All he could think of was taking the length of chain between the manacles and wrapping it around someone's throat – preferably that of their ringleader, Fournier. But in his anger, he forgot about the shackle. As he lunged at them, the chain yanked his foot back, tripping him. He fell hard as the three laughed at his pitiable attempt.

"It's a shame that a piece of shit like you is allowed to even breathe, much less walk the streets of our city. Even worse, that yer allowed to come near our women, insultin' 'em with your disgusting, lustful thoughts." Fournier spit on the floor to emphasize his contempt. "Too bad your whore of a mother didn't jus' drown you at birth. Woulda saved us all a lot of trouble." Fournier nudged his companions, laughing at his joke. "At least that fellow de Chagny knew enough to have you put away." He stepped closer. "What? You have nothin' to say?"

Erik shook with impotent rage at the sound of the vicomte's name. Of course, the coward would not do his own dirty work, would hire ruffians such as these instead. The idea of de Chagny now being free to pursue Christine was almost unbearable. He glowered at Fournier, knowing the brute was baiting him. Crawling back over to the corner, the chain dragging on the ground, Erik sat down and rested his back against the wall. Seething with burning hatred, he willed himself to remain still and not respond.

"I'm talkin' to you, you worthless piece of shit!" Fournier shouted, slapping Erik hard across the face. "You answer me, and you answer respectful-like."

Erik rubbed his stinging cheek, but did nothing, continued only to glare.

"Looks to me like our friend here is either stupid, or needs to be learnin' some manners." Fournier turned to his comrades, who were jeering and nodding in agreement. Then he looked back down at Erik. "Didn't anyone ever tell you to respect your betters – _freak?"_

"I don't see them here," Erik answered softly, unable to remain silent any longer.

"What did you say?"

Erik clenched and unclenched his fingers, aching to wrap them around Fournier's throat and choke the life out of the bastard. "You heard me," he said evenly.

He knew another outright attack against the man would not succeed. Perhaps he could lure him closer, then throw the chain around him. As soon as the idea came, though, he just as quickly dismissed it. Erik had been in enough dire situations in the past to know that under the present circumstances, any such challenge would be futile. So he sat, grinding his teeth to keep from saying anything further. If he ignored them, maybe they would tire of their games and leave him be. Then he could try working out a means of escape.

But Fournier and his goons were spoiling for a fight, and a fight they were going to have, even if it was one-sided. They grabbed Erik and dragged him to his feet, pummeling him with blows until he could no longer stand. At last, they grew weary of tormenting him and allowed his limp form to fall to the floor. It seemed like an eternity as he laid there, bleeding and bruised, gasping for breath as he clutched his stomach in pain. As the initial shock slowly subsided, Erik eased himself over onto one hip. With his hands, he tried to push himself up from the floor. There was no way he would allow these thugs see him humbled. But as Fournier walked by, he dug his boot heel into Erik's outstretched hands, and he screamed.

"Piece of shit! Next time I come here, you'd better be showing me more respect," he snarled, giving Erik one last kick in the ribs. Then the three of them left, the iron door slamming loudly behind them. And that had only been the first day...

-0-0-0-

Erik woke again, shuddering at the realism of the dream. He had no way of knowing how long it had been since his last conscious thought. He shivered. Creaking hinges told him someone was entering his cell. A tremor of dread flashed through his mind at the thought that Fournier and his goons had returned. Maybe this was to be it, his last hour on earth.

He despised lying weak and helpless, unable to carry out even the simplest form of self-defense. But it couldn't be helped. Even without the restraints, he would not have been able to fight back. The brutes had beaten him into submission – perhaps not mentally, but physically. The scraping sound and the smell of something that might have been food told him that it was not Fournier after all, but only his daily meal being brought to him.

It was not just the cruelty of Fournier and his friends that had weakened Erik; it was hunger, too. His normally lean frame was even more gaunt as a result of the subsistence diet he had been placed on – a meager allotment of a single meal each day. At least he thought it was once a day. The swill that passed for food was tossed into a tin plate, and was of a quality unfit for even the meanest criminal. And the bucket of fetid water he was given to drink must have been purposely drawn from a stagnant pool so as to make him sick.

The first time he had been served such fare, Erik had sardonically considered starvation as a means of release from the place. He pragmatically, if reluctantly, dismissed such thoughts as he gulped down the rancid food, trying his best to avoid tasting it as he swallowed. Initially he had bolstered his spirits by imagining various means of escape, and needed what food he was given to keep up his strength. Each time he was brought a meal, he made a mark on the wall. It was not the surest method to keep track of the days, as there had been a couple of times when no food had been brought at all, but it gave him something to do.

As the days passed, no means of breaking out presented itself, as the first and most important matter – freeing himself from his bonds – was next to impossible to achieve without some kind of tool, makeshift or otherwise. At last, it was becoming clear that fate had finally caught up with him. No escape would ever take place.

Fournier and his friends paid Erik several more visits, administering additional "disciplinary" beatings. Each time it took longer for Erik to recover his equilibrium, to control the pain and recuperate his strength. The most recent attack had been yesterday. At least he thought it had been yesterday. With no clock to mark its passing, or window to show the rising and setting of the sun, the only way he could measure time was by counting the scratches on the wall.

He could measure pain, though, and knew that in his weakened condition, there was no way he could survive another such brutal attack. If there was a hell on earth, he was surely in that place. The only thing missing was de Chagny to gloat over his fallen rival.

Bereft of ever seeing the outside world again, of ever seeing Christine again, Erik felt himself slipping into the darkest of despair. The more he thought of her, the more he was coming to believe that it would be better that she should be with someone else, someone who did not have to hide from the world. She deserved someone who could offer her everything she had ever wanted and deserved, someone like Anatole Garron.

He knew Garron was one of her few friends at the opera, and had even teased her on several occasions that the baritone might be interested in her. Had not Garron's intervention the night of the _bal masqué_ been for Christine's sake, and not his? If his situation were not been so dire, Erik might have laughed when he realized he was starting to think like de Chagny! With him no longer clouding the picture, she would be free to remake her choice. A sad smile played across Erik's face as he imagined her singing onstage with Garron before an adoring public, something he would never have been able to do with her.

Perhaps something good would come out of all his suffering after all. Though this was not the way he would have chosen to leave her, the results would be the same. At last, he could do something noble and put her needs ahead of his own. He consoled himself with the fact that he had known some happiness in his miserable life. The memories of their months together would be enough to last him a lifetime, and the way things looked, that would not be too much longer anyway.

Having at last come to terms with a future without Christine, Erik sank into the merciful arms of oblivion.

-0-0-0-


	19. Plans are Made

**Chapter 18  
****Plans are Made**

**-0-0-0-**

_Sunday_

Sunday broke clear and cool, and as promised, Anatole came by to check on Christine. Sitting next to her on the sofa, he accepted the cup of tea she offered him.

"You're looking much better, Christine," he said between sips. "Much more rested."

She nodded, smiling weakly. "I was actually able to sleep last night. I believe that is the first full night's sleep I'd gotten since…," she halted, "…since Erik disappeared." Lowering her head, she stared into her tea cup. "It makes me feel almost guilty, knowing that while I have the luxury of my own bed, Erik is being held against his will in who knows what manner of horrid place."

Anatole took her by the hand, offering what reassurances he could. "There's no need to feel guilty. You'll be no use to him if you allow yourself to succumb to such thinking. You must keep up your strength; get your rest so you will be sharp and alert. Speaking of which, have you eaten today?" He was concerned at how thin she had become of late. He doubted that sleep was the only thing she had not been getting enough of.

Off in the distance a church bell was tolling. She glanced towards the window and the peaceful street outside, then returned her attention to Anatole. "Yes, I had a croissant this morning before you came."

Anatole nodded, not completely satisfied, but glad she had eaten something. "And what about de Chagny. Has he been by?"

Christine shook her head. "Not that I'm aware of. And I'm sure the landlady would have mentioned it if someone had called while I was sleeping. Nothing and nobody gets past her. She is very protective of the young ladies who rent from her, and is better than any watch dog."

"Good. That's one less problem we have to deal with right now. Our first priority needs to be your fiancé's safety. Now, I went to see Monsieur d'Aubert last night, and he has invited us to have dinner with him, after which we shall discuss the case in more detail."

"He doesn't mind?"

"Not at all. He is willing to do whatever he can to assist us with our case."

She smiled at Anatole's unconscious reference to "our case," and then an uncomfortable thought came to mind. She managed to live comfortably on her small salary, as her needs were few and did not require a great deal of money. But a private investigator would surely require payment for his services, and she was not sure if she had enough on hand. Perhaps Mamma Valérius would be able to help her. She looked at Anatole and said, "How shall I ever repay him?"

"You mustn't worry about such matters. I would be more than happy to assist you, should the need arise. However, when I spoke with Reynard last night, I got the distinct impression that he is willing to take on the matter without charge."

"That's very generous of him, to offer such a kindness to someone he does not even know."

"I believe there is more to it than that, Christine. I don't know all the details, but I seem to recall that something unpleasant happened in the past that left him with no great love for the Chagny family."

The two chatted a little while longer, then Anatole got up to leave. "I shall be by to pick you up around noon, Christine. And don't forget to bring that letter you copied."

-0-0-0-

A maid showed Christine and Anatole into the parlor. Waiting in the room was Reynard d'Aubert. Christine inspected him with a critical eye; after all, this was the man she was expecting to help save Erik's life. In front of her, she saw a man of average height and build, an indeterminate number of years older than Anatole but with only a few gray wisps in his dark, slicked-back hair. He presented a picture of cool professionalism – from his neat, trimmed haircut and mustache to the smartly tailored cut of his clothes and highly polished shoes. It was his eyes, however, that caught her attention. They were pale blue-gray in color, almost like ice, giving d'Aubert a cold and calculating expression.

_I suppose one must possess such attributes to be a good detective_, Christine thought to herself, smiling politely as introductions were made. Once those formalities were over, d'Aubert announced that dinner would be served shortly.

"I hope the two of you are hungry," he said. "Cook makes a particularly delicious _Poulet à la Normande_."

Christine did not think she was hungry. Her stomach was still in knots as she wondered for the thousandth time if she was doing the right thing. Once at the dining room table, however, with the fragrant plate of poached chicken in a creamy mushroom sauce sitting in front of her, she realized how famished she was. Throughout the meal, the three of them purposely avoided discussion of their real reason for their being here. Instead, they engaged in casual, polite conversation. After doing justice to their dinner, and extending compliments to the cook, the three of them retired to the parlor.

"I imagine you are wondering why I went to the trouble of inviting you to dinner when a simple conversation between us might have done just as well," d'Aubert said.

"It did cross my mind," Christine answered.

"I confess that it is not something I would normally do when meeting with a client. However, when Garron called on me last night and explained your plight, he also suggested that you might have been too upset to eat much of late. In fact, it was his idea that we have dinner before discussing your situation, and I concurred."

Christine looked across at Anatole, then back at d'Aubert, finding a new admiration for both men. "Thank you, both of you. That was most considerate."

"Not at all, Mademoiselle Daaé. Since we've had a chance to get better acquainted with one another, why don't we get down to business? Garron has explained to me that your fiancé disappeared Saturday last, and that you suspect that he has been kidnapped."

"That is true, Monsieur d'Aubert."

"Would you please tell me in your own words exactly what happened?"

Christine gave her account, providing as much detail as she could. The only thing she omitted, just as she had with Anatole, was the location of Erik's house. She hoped that d'Aubert would not ask to see it. Fortunately, he did not. She explained the conversation she overheard between Raoul and the opera house managers, and also the letter.

"So, your fiancé is the source of these stories of a ghost inhabiting the opera house?" he asked.

Christine had considered withholding that bit of information as well, but concluded that if d'Aubert were to help her, she needed to be as honest as possible with him. After all, it was not as if Erik had actually committed any of the misdeeds that were attributed to him. Except perhaps the monthly salary? She pushed that thought aside, leaving it in the same place as the information about the location of Erik's house – to be mentioned only if absolutely necessary.

"Yes," was all she said.

D'Aubert accepted her explanation of things without a quibble, then asked, "Did you bring the copy you made?"

Pulling the folded piece of paper from her reticule, Christine handed it to him. She watched his face as he read its contents, trying to read his expression. But he was obviously well schooled in keeping his emotions to himself.

"I should like to make a copy, Mlle Daaé. The information it contains is most helpful."

"Please, you may keep that if you wish," she said.

"No. You must keep this safe. We wouldn't want our only copy to become lost or damaged." Letter in hand, Reynard d'Aubert walked over to a desk that stood in the far corner of the room. There he quickly copied out the contents of the letter and placed his in a drawer. When he was finished, he returned to his chair and handed Christine's back to her.

"Now, perhaps you can shed some light on something for me, Mademoiselle. Why would the Vicomte de Chagny wish to kidnap your fiancé?"

She might not have noticed the slight curl of his lips at the mention of the de Chagny name had Anatole not earlier mentioned d'Aubert's dislike of the family. "The only reason I can think of is that he is insanely jealous, and resents that I turned down his proposal in favor of Erik's." She explained how Raoul had been very persistent in his advances, even telling of the disastrous encounter the night of the masked ball. Anatole corroborated what she said, adding what he had witnessed that night.

"I see. A jilted lover," d'Aubert said, slowly nodding his head up and down.

"Monsieur d'Aubert, do you think you can help me?" she asked.

"Believe me Mlle Daaé when I say that nothing would please me more than to bring the Chagnys down a peg or two."

Such a comment, especially when coupled with Anatole's earlier remarks, piqued her curiosity, but d'Aubert did not volunteer anything further on the subject and propriety forbade her from pursuing the matter.

"I suggest that we meet back here in two days – sooner if I am able get the information I need before then. You have given me more than sufficient data with which to begin making inquiries. In the meantime, I strongly recommend that you stay away from the opera house and de Chagny. Perhaps you can send a note, explaining that you have had a relapse of your illness."

"I shall see to that this afternoon."

"If you would like, you may write your note here, and have Garron deliver it for you."

Anatole nodded in agreement. "I would be happy to do that."

The last details taken care of, Anatole and Christine prepared to leave. She thanked d'Aubert for his willingness to take on the case.

"My pleasure, Mademoiselle. It is not often that a man gets an opportunity to assist a damsel in distress."

She smiled when he said that, realizing that beneath the cold and analytical exterior beat the heart of a hopeless romantic.

"Very well, then," d'Aubert said as the three of them got up and walked towards the door. "I shall look forward to seeing the two of you on Tuesday."

-0-0-0-

_Tuesday_

"It is good to see you again, Mlle Daaé, Anatole."

The three of them – Christine, Anatole, and Reynard d'Aubert were once again sitting in the former policeman's parlor.

"I spent Sunday afternoon and all of yesterday making discreet inquiries regarding the disappearance of the man known as Erik. I am able to report to you that fortune has smiled upon us." Throughout his little speech, d'Aubert referred to a small notebook. When he spoke, his words were clipped and clearly enunciated. "According to one of my informants – a very trustworthy person, I might add – an alleged madman was abducted from outside the opera house on the evening of Saturday, February 26. The act was perpetrated under the direction of a rather unsavory character by the name of Jean-Claude Fournier."

"That was the night Erik disappeared," Christine said.

"Precisely. From the opera house, this man was taken to a private sanitarium run by a Monsieur Delacroix, which, as the heading on the letter you copied indicates, is located on the southern outskirts of Paris. My source tells me he is still there, and is being kept under lock and key. I have not been able to verify his name, and consider it highly unlikely they would even record his admittance under his true name – if at all. Under the circumstances, however, I find it difficult to imagine this could be anyone else."

Christine listened silently, absorbing everything d'Aubert was telling them.

"Erik is not a madman," added Reynard, "but it is to the advantage of these people for him to be presumed as such. After all, one cannot go about abducting innocent people from the streets of Paris."

"What do you know about this man Fournier?" asked Anatole.

D'Aubert took a deep breath and exhaled. "I know a lot about Fournier, and none of it good. He is a petty hoodlum who has managed to escape the wheels of justice. He is rumored to hire himself out for odd jobs, often involving extortion and crimes of violence. Unfortunately, it is difficult to get his victims to testify against him, and so usually escapes paying for his crimes. That he is employed as a guard at Delacroix's sanitarium confirms that we are on the right track."

"At this point, our mission changes from one of discovery to one of rescue. This is not something we should rush into helter-skelter. We must plan thoroughly. I know that your first instinct is to hasten to this place and demand your fiancé's release, but I must caution you that such tactics will never work."

That was exactly what Christine wanted to do, but deferred to Reynard d'Aubert's better judgment. "You are the expert in these matters. Please, tell me what it is you wish us to do."

They sat together, formulating their plan to rescue Erik. There were still specifics that needed to be ironed out, but from the start d'Aubert insisted that they must expect one of several possibilities when it came to rescuing Erik. "The first possibility is that he will be well enough to leave the facility under his own power. The second and most likely is that he will need assistance."

"He would need assistance because…because he is ill or injured. Is that what you are saying?" Christine asked, already knowing the answer she dreaded hearing, but needing to ask just the same.

D'Aubert tried to respond her question as delicately as possible. "Do you have any idea how inmates, even legitimate ones, are often treated in places such as these?"

She shook her head no. "I've…I've never had any need to know of such things."

"I do not wish to alarm you, Mademoiselle, but inmates are often subjected to…unpleasant treatment. And we must not forget the comments in the letter you yourself copied. Do you not remember?" He referred back to his own copy and read, _"… the patient's propensity towards violence has prevented medical treatment of the wounds he obtained during his transportation."_

Hearing those words read out loud once again left her feeling numb and cold. "Just…what kind of place is this sanitarium?" she asked.

"It is a private institution, Mademoiselle. A lunatic asylum. A mad house for the criminally insane. Somebody is using the pretext that Erik is a madman to cover the fact that this is a case of criminal kidnapping, and I fear his treatment at the hands of these people may be harsh."

"Do you believe he is…dead?" She looked into d'Aubert's face, expecting to see his emotionless ice-blue eyes looking at her. Instead, she saw compassion.

He hesitated before answering, weighing how much more the young woman could take. When he took into consideration what she had already endured, and how she was comporting herself, d'Aubert realized that Mlle Daaé was much stronger than most would give her credit for being. He decided that honesty would be the best approach. "That is a possibility. But I do not think that is the case," he quickly added, wishing to alleviate the young woman's fears.

Her chest constricted, and she found it hard to breath. The room became clouded with red, and for a moment, she felt faint. Anatole noticed her pallor, and got up and poured her a brandy. Accepting the glass, Christine sipped the liquid and forced herself to calm down and conquer her terrors. As quickly as it came, the fear left her. She felt charged with emotion, and her voice rang out with clarity and determination.

"I agree with you, Monsieur; he's not dead," she insisted. She looked at the two men, skepticism marking their faces. "I would know if he were dead. It is true that Erik is many things, that he can, at times, be difficult. But he is not a madman. For him to be locked in such a place is…is worse than cruel. You recall my telling you of Erik's…special circumstances?"

"You are referring to his disfigurement."

She nodded. "You must understand that Erik has known much unkindness through most of his life, all because of an accident of birth. Whoever is responsible for this will have much to answer for," she concluded vehemently. "Tell me what I must do to help secure his freedom."

More discussions were held. It was agreed that Christine would telegraph Mamma Valérius, informing her foster mother that she and a friend or two would be coming to visit in a couple of days.

"We want Mme Valérius to know we may be bringing Erik to her house, and that he may need medical attention, but try not to include too many details. Perhaps just tell her that your gentleman has been unwell, and needs a quiet place away from the city in which to recuperate. Then meet me back here on Thursday. I need to make some arrangements that may take the better part of tomorrow."

They talked for a few more minutes, then Christine and Anatole prepared to leave.

"It seems as though we're spending so much time doing nothing when every moment Erik's life may be in danger," Christine said, then immediately regretted her outburst.

"I understand how you feel, Mlle Daaé. I wish we could move faster. But we must go forth with caution. As you said earlier, at least we know Erik is alive. From the contents of that letter, it seems that they want to keep him alive – at least for now. These are dangerous men, and if we barge in ill-prepared, the results could prove disastrous."

"I'm sorry. It's just that I'm so worried."

She saw d'Aubert's features soften when he next spoke. "I quite understand, Mademoiselle. I want nothing more than to have you reunited with your gentleman, and pledge you my word that I shall do everything within my power to do so."

At that moment, she knew she could trust d'Aubert implicitly. Walking over to him, she took his hands in hers and kissed him on the cheek. "Thank you, Monsieur. I know that together, we shall save Erik."

* * *

How could I resist adding a recipe? _Poulet à la Normande_, or **Chicken, Normandy Style, **is a poached chicken served with a creamy mushroom sauce.

**INGREDIENTS:  
**1 chicken, cut into 4 serving pieces  
1 carrot, sliced  
1 small onion, sliced  
1 leek, washed and rinsed well, sliced (white parts only)  
bouquet garni (sprigs of parsley and thyme along with a bay leaf wrapped in 3-4-in piece of celery )  
8 cups chicken stock  
salt

**FOR THE SAUCE:  
**2½ Tablespoons unsalted butter  
4½ Tablespoons unbleached flour  
¼ lb. mushrooms, thinly sliced  
2 Tablespoons crème fraîche  
salt and freshly ground black pepper

**PREPARATION:  
**1. Place the chicken in a high-sided saucepan. The pan should be big enough so that the chicken fits in a single layer.  
2. Add the carrots, onions, leeks, bouquet garni, stock and salt. Bring to a boil.  
3. Reduce heat, cover and simmer for about 50 minutes.  
4. Remove the chicken from the pan. Strain and reserve the poaching liquid.  
5. **For the Sauce:** Melt the butter in a saucepan and whisk in the flour. Do not allow the flour to color. Whisking constantly, pour in 4 cups of the strained poaching broth and bring to a boil.  
6. Reduce the heat to low and simmer, skimming regularly, until the sauce is reduced by half. This will take about an hour, perhaps a little less.  
7. During the last 5 minutes of cooking, add the mushrooms and the crème fraîche to the sauce. Taste and adjust seasoning.

**To serve: **Gently reheat the chicken pieces in the poaching liquid. (You can be doing this while the sauce is reducing). Drain the chicken and transfer to a warmed serving platter. Pour the sauce over the chicken and serve.

And if you don't know what crème fraîche (pronounced krem fresh) is, it is a thick and smooth heavy cream with a wonderfully rich and velvety texture. In a medium saucepan over low heat, warm the cream to 105 degrees F (40 degrees C). Remove from heat and stir in the buttermilk. Transfer the cream to a large bowl and allow this mixture to stand in a warm place, loosely covered with plastic wrap, until thickened but still pourable. Stir and taste every 6 - 8 hours. This process takes anywhere from 24 to 36 hours, depending on your room temperature. The crème is ready when it is thick with a slightly nutty sour taste. Chill cream, in the refrigerator, for several hours before using. Crème fraîche may be made and stored in the refrigerator for up to 10 days.


	20. Events Are Set Into Motion

**Chapter 19  
****Events Are Set Into Motion **

_Thursday_

Christine and Anatole were once again at d'Aubert's house. They went into the parlor where he politely offered them a drink. Anatole accepted a cognac, while Christine drank nothing stronger than a cup of tea.

"How have you been managing, Mlle Daaé?" the detective asked.

"Worried. Nervous. Once I took care of my tasks, I spent the rest of the afternoon cleaning out my closets and my cupboards. I don't think my apartment has ever been as clean as it is now."

D'Aubert smiled. "Were you able to as I requested?"

"Yes. Anatole delivered my note to Messieurs Richard and Moncharmin, informing them that due to a relapse of my recent illness, I shall be out indefinitely. I received a reply from them, threatening me with breach of contract. I promptly wrote back and suggested that they do just that, but that I was still sick and would be happy to have a doctor come and explain the matter to them in terms so clear there would be no misunderstanding them."

"And where were you going to find this doctor?" Anatole asked, having been kept unaware of the exchange of notes between Christine and the Opera House.

"I had no idea what I would do if they insisted upon seeing the doctor, but felt confident they would not. I believe what I was doing is referred to as calling one's bluff. Within an hour of my note being delivered, a messenger came to my door and handed my landlady a reply, which she promptly brought up to me. In it was the most abject apology I've ever read."

D'Aubert chuckled, while Anatole laughed outright at her boldness.

"I also wrote to my foster mother. She will be expecting us. As you requested, I kept specific details to a minimum, withholding the date or time of our arrival."

"That is good. And do you believe she will understand?"

"Mamma is very clever. We will have no problems there."

D'Aubert paused before going on. "I've given this matter a great deal of thought. We must keep in mind that we are dealing with a member of one of the oldest aristocratic families in France, and therefore, I must emphasize again that we must proceed with caution and good planning. I have, however, learned one good bit of news. The Vicomte has left for the south of France. Apparently he is planning on enjoying an extended holiday there."

"Is he by any chance traveling with a woman named Meg Giry?" Christine asked.

"As a matter of fact, he is. But how did you know?" d'Aubert asked.

"It's been common knowledge at the opera house that Raoul and Meg have established a liaison – if that is the proper term?" she explained. "And I sincerely hope that she makes his life as miserable as possible."

"Regardless of who is traveling with whom," d'Aubert continued, "the fact that he is not in the vicinity should be of great benefit to us. I've been expecting to hear that he had visited his 'patient,' but apparently what he is doing is distancing himself from the business, trying to keep his name from being linked to the affair."

"And not doing a very good job of it," muttered Garron.

D'Aubert shot an eyebrow up at the baritone. "Wealth does not automatically include intelligence, my dear Anatole. Now then, here is what I propose." He then went over his plan. He would call upon the administrator of the asylum, representing himself as Inspector Erique Claudin, implying that he was there on a delicate matter for the sûreté – to take into custody the man known as the Phantom of the Opera and hand him over to the authorities. There would be letters written on official letterhead to back up his claims.

"And where will you get these letters from?" asked Christine.

"Don't ask," said Anatole. "Let's just say Reynard still has friends in places both high and low."

"I'm asking because I am concerned that someone else will now know that Erik and the Phantom are one and the same."

"You need not be concerned, Mademoiselle," d'Aubert reassured her. "Erik's name will not appear anywhere in the letters. The man who is making them for me is a master forger; he has no wish for the authorities to know anything, either."

"I see," was all she could think to say, amazed that a former inspector of the Sûreté would be on such close terms with a master forger.

Turning to Anatole, he asked, "Garron, could you play the part of a physician?"

"A doctor? You want me to pretend to be a doctor?"

"You're an actor, are you not?"

"I'm a baritone, an operatic singer," Garron retorted, smarting at being referred to as an actor.

Rolling his eyes, d'Aubert said, "You're an actor, Monsieur, who just happens to sing. When I call upon the asylum, I need a doctor with me. Or at least someone the staff will think is a doctor. Surely you can pass yourself off as one long enough to secure Monsieur Erik's release?"

Embarrassed once he realized what d'Aubert was suggesting, Garron sheepishly acknowledged that he supposed he could manage such a disguise.

"And you, Mademoiselle, can you pose as a nurse? Could you secure something suitable to wear?"

Christine nodded yes. "I'm sure the appropriate attire can be found at the opera house. Anatole, do you suppose you could search through the prop rooms for me? I would go there myself but…"

Anatole would not let her finish. "Even if you were foolish enough to want to go there yourself, I would not let you."

"You are right, of course. I believe there are some costumes from an older production buried away in one of the closets that would allow me to pass as a Sister of Charity."

"As soon as we've finished here, and I've deposited you at your flat, I shall take care of that little bit of business."

"Deposited?" she asked, laughing for the first time in days. It was only a little laugh, but it was a laugh nonetheless. "You make me sound like a commodity to be dropped off somewhere."

"A very precious commodity, my dear."

D'Aubert cleared his throat, interrupting their exchange, but was inwardly pleased to see that Mlle Daaé was more relaxed and confident. Yes, there was definitely a lot of strength in this woman. Her fiancé was a fortunate man indeed. "If we may dispense with the discussion of commodities, I should like to go over the rest of our plan." He looked to Christine. "Have you received a reply from your foster mother? She will be expecting us at her house?"

She nodded. "Yes, a brief wire stating she would see us when we arrived. She has a small house outside of Perros-Guirec. That should be far enough away from Paris."

"Yes, I think Brittany should provide you and your fiancé with a safe and comfortable haven in which to stay until we get this matter completely cleared up. What I shall do is arrange for an ambulance and driver to meet us early tomorrow morning. I know a man, very honest, to do the job for us. He will only be told that he is to take us to Delacroix's sanitarium to pick up a patient, and then transport us to the railroad station at Courtelain. As far as he will be concerned, this will be a simple, straightforward matter. When we get to Courtelain, we shall board the train to Brittany and Perros-Guirec."

"I shall pack a basket with food. I imagine we shall need something to eat along the way," Christine offered.

D'Aubert mentally congratulated her for her quick thinking. "An excellent idea, Mademoiselle. Perhaps something to drink as well. It will be a long day."

"Is there anything else we should bring with us?" asked Anatole.

"We need first aid supplies – a small flask of brandy or some other stimulant, unguents or salves, and as many rolls of bandages as you can get a hold of." He saw the puzzled look on both their faces. "The bandages, if not needed to treat actual injuries, can always be used to disguise our 'patient.' As a matter of fact, that is exactly what I was going to suggest we do. Regardless of Monsieur Erik's condition, once we get him into the ambulance his head and hands should be wrapped in bandages. I shall be notifying the station master at Courtelain that we are bringing a burn patient with us. No one will want to disturb such a person."

Christine and Anatole agreed that such a plan would work.

"Very well, then. Meet me here promptly at 7:30 tomorrow morning. It will probably take us the better part of two hours to reach the sanitarium. I can explain the rest of our plans in more detail during our drive there. If there are no more questions, then I shall see the two of you in the morning. _À demain_. Until tomorrow."

-0-0-0-

The two singers met d'Aubert at the appointed time. No one seeing her would have guessed that the mousy-looking nun, dressed in the bluish-grey habit of the Sisters of Charity, was in fact the new star of the Paris Opera. Gone were her golden locks, her hair completely covered by a wimple. A pair of wire-framed glasses were perched on her nose, completing her disguise. From her own experience, she knew that no one paid much attention to a nun's appearance, much less a nun with glasses. With her was the basket that she and Erik had used for their rooftop picnic, a reminder of more pleasant times. Inside, were the food, beverages, and bandages she and d'Aubert had discussed bringing yesterday.

"We need to agree upon names," said d'Aubert. "We cannot use our own for fear of being traced."

"Then I shall be Sister Marie. It is my middle name and should be easy enough to remember," Christine said.

"And you, Garron? Have you decided upon a name?"

Anatole, looking dapper as always, managed to make even a worn, out-of-fashion frock coat, hat and doctor's bag, which held the various first aid medicines and bandages, look fashionable. "I thought I'd use my mother's maiden name, Molyneux."

D'Aubert approved of both. Excusing himself, he stepped out of the room and reappeared shortly, wearing his inspector's uniform. Christine could not help but think what a dashing figure he cut even at his age with his erect bearing, neatly pressed seams, and buttons and shoes polished to a bright shine. Even his mustache was waxed and trimmed. Picking up a packet of documents sitting on the desk, he stuffed them into his inside jacket pocket. Turning to the two of them, he asked, "Are we ready? Then let us be going."

Two hours later, the ambulance pulled up the gravel drive and parked at the entrance of Monsieur Delacroix's sanitarium. The location was ideal for hiding someone away, as it was out in the country, a goodly number of kilometers from the city. There were no farms or houses within sight, nothing or no place nearby that could provide an escaping inmate with help. Stepping out of the vehicle, d'Aubert turned to Christine.

"I would prefer it if you would remain out here, with the ambulance," he said. "I know you would not purposely do anything to endanger our mission, but considering your close relationship with Monsieur Erik, there is always the possibility that you would inadvertently give us away. Please do not mistake this as an insult against you, Mademoiselle."

Much as she hated to admit, Christine knew that d'Aubert was right. If she were to accompany them inside and saw Erik being mistreated, she doubted she would be able to continue her masquerade. "I understand, Monsieur. I shall wait for the three of you out here."

"Might I suggest that you wait inside the ambulance carriage, and have the bandages ready as we previously discussed?"

She couldn't resist a nervous smile at the man. "And keep myself busy while the two of you do whatever it is that you need to do inside? Don't worry; I'm not insulted. Just help Erik."

D'Aubert turned to Anatole. "Are you ready, Dr. Molyneux?"

"As ready as I shall ever be, Inspector Claudin," he replied.

"Then let us see to getting our patient discharged."

The two men walked up the gravel path to the entrance of the sanitarium.

Once inside, d'Aubert explained their visit to the gentleman at the front desk, requesting to see Monsieur Delacroix. A few minutes later, they were being led to the director's private office. Introductions were made, and Delacroix invited the two men to be seated in the chairs that were in front of his desk.

"Inspector Claudin, how many we be of service to the Sûreté?" the director inquired.

Looking at his face, to gauge his opponent, d'Aubert found that the man did not possess the overt appearance of someone evil, but noted a definite weakness to his features, a look of dissipation, confirming d'Aubert's earlier inquiries. If Delacroix had a weakness, it was the gaming tables. His debts were considerable, and that in turn led to his willingness to cast a blind eye to the admission and 'treatment' of certain patients – if the price were right.

D'Aubert handed Delacroix the forged letters, explaining the purpose of his visit. "I am here to take into custody a patient currently residing within your sanitarium, M. Delacroix. I am, of course, referring to the man known as the Phantom of the Opera."

Delacroix frowned. "My apologies, Inspector, but I'm afraid I have no idea to whom you refer."

D'Aubert studied the man's features closely and determined that the man was not lying. He pressed forward. His informant told him that Erik had been brought here, and here is where he would find him. "Surely, Monsieur, you know of whom I speak. Perhaps you know him by another name? He was brought here by order of the Vicomte de Chagny."

"Oh!" the director said, recognizing Raoul's name. "We were never given a name for the patient, and he has repeatedly refused to provide us with one. The only information we were provided is that he was an itinerant madman sent here for his own protection and the protection of the public in general. Apparently, he is prone to violent episodes. The Vicomte de Chagny is a very charitable man, and even arranged to pay for the patient's care."

"Yes, I'm sure," d'Aubert replied blandly. "It seems, though, that your mystery patient is more well known to the authorities in Paris. My superiors are most eager to take custody of him. Back in Paris, a panel of magistrates will determine if he is competent to stand trial for his crimes."

"Crimes?" asked Delacroix. "What kind of crimes?"

"Murder," replied d'Aubert ominously. "He is said to have murdered a scene shifter at the opera house for no other reason than that he did not care for the man's looks."

"I see," the director said nervously, unconsciously placing his own hand to his throat in a protective gesture. "Yes, what you say fits in with what my people have experienced with the man. Violent episodes. Very violent episodes. Are you certain you can manage someone such as he, Inspector?"

D'Aubert nodded to Anatole. "That is why I have brought along Dr. Molyneux. He shall see to the patient's needs and, if necessary, sedate him. Awaiting us outside is an ambulance, in which are the necessary facilities and restraints – again, should they be needed. I also have a nurse, skilled in the handling of mental patients, Sister Marie of the Sisters of Charity. And, of course, I shall be with them as well. Between the three of us, I am sure we will be able to transport the patient with little or no incident."

Delacroix picked up the papers and carefully re-read the forged letters, then looked back at d'Aubert. "Everything here appears to be in order. I was wondering, though, if I should have to return Monsieur de Chagny's 'donation', since his patient will no longer be with us."

"I am certain the Vicomte would wish you to use the money in your continued good works with these poor, unfortunate souls," suggested Garron, knowing that the money would be used for nothing of the sort.

The director appeared satisfied with everything. "Then, gentlemen, won't you come with me?"

They followed Delacroix down to the lower lever, where they were taken to the squalid cell where Erik was being held.

"This part of the building is where we keep our most severe cases. The rooms are very safe, very secure. There is no way a dangerous man such as he can escape from here," the director announced proudly.

They stood by as an orderly unlocked the heavy iron door. Stepping in, d'Aubert and Garron were not prepared for the sight that greeted them. Curled on the floor in the corner and bound in chains lay the battered wreckage of a man. The inmate appeared to be unconscious, making no effort to move as they entered the room and giving no sign that he was aware of their presence.

Garron feared he would be sick. He remembered Christine's fiancé from the night of the masquerade, the tall and elegant figure dressed in red, half of whose face bore the unfortunate defect that damned him to this unspeakable treatment. Looking at the pitiful creature on the floor, it was hard to equate the two.

He stepped nearer, taking a closer look at the sight before him while trying to maintain the façade of being a doctor. It would have been hard to tell if the 'patient' suffered from a physical deformity as his face was covered with the evidence of beatings. Garron also saw that bruises and abrasions covered Erik's arms and legs, and that there were open sores where the metal restraints had rubbed his skin raw.

The gown he had been given to wear barely met the demands of modesty, and was torn and soiled with sweat, grime and blood. The unpleasant smell of human waste assailed Garron's nostrils. He glanced around the room. Spying the bucket in the corner, he immediately insisted upon its being removed. Approaching Erik slowly so as not to cause him any alarm, he knelt by his side and extracted a small flask from his medical bag.

"Are these restraints really necessary?" he asked.

"As I explained in my office, Dr. Molyneux, this patient is a violent man," Delacroix replied, resenting the tone of Garron's voice. "Any injuries you see were received when he attacked one of the guards and had to be subdued. Madmen have great strength, and can seldom control it. My people must be able to defend themselves."

_I would be violent, too, if I were subjected to this kind of torture,_ thought Garron, fighting to keep such thoughts to himself. He had prepared himself to find Erik in need of assistance, but this was beyond anything he could have ever imagined.

D'Aubert was sickened by the sight as well, but his years on the force had taught him how to keep his emotions hidden, his face passive. He knew Delacroix was lying, that he had deliberately allowed his guards to torture this man, but chose not to confront the pompous ass. Their mission was to secure Erik's release, not argue with a greedy man who turned a blind eye to human suffering in exchange for money. "I see," was all he said.

"Can you bring me a blanket or some kind of cloth I can use as a pillow?" Garron asked the orderly. The orderly looked to Delacroix to see if he should comply with the request. The director gave a curt nod to the orderly, who left the room and returned shortly with an old woolen blanket.

Folding the blanket, Garron gently lifted Erik's head and placed it underneath. Unable to maintain the same kind of control as d'Aubert, he muttered sarcastically, "Perhaps your people forgot something when this man was brought here?"

"Such as?" Delacroix asked archly.

"Oh, I don't know. The Hippocratic Oath perhaps? The part about doing your patient no harm?"

The director glowered at Garron, then looked pointedly at d'Aubert. "Is your doctor always so insulting, Claudin?" he demanded.

"He is simply sensitive. Pay him no heed." D'Aubert shot Garron a look, begging him to keep his thoughts to himself. Out loud, he maintained his character and simply said, "Just do your job, Doctor."

* * *

**Historical Notes:**

Various orders that have provided nurses include the Sisters of Charity, the Sisters of Mercy, the Sisters of St. Joseph and the Sisters of the Holy Cross. The Sisters of Charity, or "The Grey Sisters" are a congregation of women with simple vows, founded in 1633 and devoted to corporal and spiritual works of mercy. Their full title is Sisters or Daughters of Charity (the founder preferred the latter term), Servants of the Sick Poor. The term "of St. Vincent de Paul" has been added to distinguish them form several communities of Sisters of Charity, animated with a similar spirit, among whom they rank in priority of origin and greatness of numbers. They have always been popularly known in France as "the Grey Sisters" from the colour of their habit, which is bluish grey, but are not to be confounded with the Grey Nuns, a community will known in Canada and New England. They are not infrequently called the sisters of St. Vincent de Paul, though a recent French congregation having this saint for their patron, bears that name.

**The Hippocratic Oath **(Original, translated from Greek.)

I swear by Apollo the physician, and Asclepius, and Hygieia and Panacea and all the gods and goddesses as my witnesses, that, according to my ability and judgement, I will keep this Oath and this contract:

To hold him who taught me this art equally dear to me as my parents, to be a partner in life with him, and to fulfill his needs when required; to look upon his offspring as equals to my own siblings, and to teach them this art, if they shall wish to learn it, without fee or contract; and that by the set rules, lectures, and every other mode of instruction, I will impart a knowledge of the art to my own sons, and those of my teachers, and to students bound by this contract and having sworn this Oath to the law of medicine, but to no others.

I will use those dietary regimens which will benefit my patients according to my greatest ability and judgement, and I will do no harm or injustice to them.

I will not give a lethal drug to anyone if I am asked, nor will I advise such a plan; and similarly I will not give a woman a pessary to cause an abortion.

In purity and according to divine law will I carry out my life and my art.

I will not use the knife, even upon those suffering from stones, but I will leave this to those who are trained in this craft.

Into whatever homes I go, I will enter them for the benefit of the sick, avoiding any voluntary act of impropriety or corruption, including the seduction of women or men, whether they are free men or slaves.

Whatever I see or hear in the lives of my patients, whether in connection with my professional practice or not, which ought not to be spoken of outside, I will keep secret, as considering all such things to be private.

So long as I maintain this Oath faithfully and without corruption, may it be granted to me to partake of life fully and the practice of my art, gaining the respect of all men for all time. However, should I transgress this Oath and violate it, may the opposite be my fate.

Translated by Michael North, National Library of Medicine, 2002.

Source: _National Institutes of Health, National Library of Medicine, History of Medicine Division, Greek Medicine website._


	21. Escape from the Asylum

**All right, everyone; I think it's time we got Erik away from the bad guys!**

* * *

**Chapter 20  
****Escape from the Asylum **

**-0-0-0-**

Erik lay on the floor, unaware of whether he was conscious…or dreaming. Somewhere in the distance, a door opened. Was it the door to this cell? Erik didn't know. He was beyond caring. Remaining as motionless as possible to avoid bringing undue notice to himself, he sensed rather than saw the others enter the room. They were talking, but their words were not always clear.

"Are these restraints really necessary?"

"He's a violent man, Monsieur."

"I see." A pause. "Dr. Molyneux, will you tend to the patient?"

Erik despised himself for being so weak, hated himself for wishing he could crawl away and hide. He ignored the person who came over and knelt by his side, tried to disregard the hands that cradled his head, lifting it from the floor and placed something underneath to cushion it.

_No!_ _I refuse to open my eyes!_

If he opened his eyes, he feared he would discover this was nothing more than a pain-induced hallucination, or worse, that it was another of Fournier's cruel tricks. Either way, he did not think he could stand the wretchedness of knowing hope again only to have it ripped away.

But no matter how hard he tried to ignore him, the other would not leave, was even talking to him. Part of Erik's mind thought he recognized the voice, which he knew was impossible. How would he know anyone in this hell hole, unless it was Fournier?

Erik wanted to scream at them, order them away. The last thing he wanted was to be drawn back to consciousness. All he wanted was to be left alone in his misery, left with the peace of nothingness, the serenity of oblivion.

"Erik," the other man was speaking softly yet urgently. "You'll be out of here soon."

Out of here? Dear God, was he delusional, hearing voices? Had they finally driven him mad? Or was it possible that Christine had discovered where he was being held, had sent someone for him? His heart beat quicker, his yearning for freedom rekindled.

He needed to know the truth, and endeavored to open his eyes, but found the task difficult. His vision was blurred, caused either by the injuries to his face or possibly the concussion, but off to one side he could see two people standing. One was a man in what appeared to be a doctor's long white coat. The other was wearing a uniform, possibly a policeman. The headache brought on by the effort proved to be excruciating, so he gave it up. If it were the police who had come for him, so be it.

"Remove these restraints. This patient cannot be transported in this condition. And he needs to be cleaned. He may be a madman, but even a madman deserves better than to be left in his own filth." It was the man next to him who was speaking, the one the others addressed as Dr. Molyneux.

_Odd_, _that's not the name I've heard him called before_._ If only I could remember…_

Erik tried to open his mouth, to speak, but all he could manage were low, painful moans. Another person came over and he heard the clanking of chains as his restraints were removed. Released at last from his bonds Erik found he still could not move. He was too weak. An arm circled itself 'round his upper body and propped his head against a shoulder. Something was placed at his lips and he was being urged to drink.

Erik's mouth was parched; his tongue thick and dry. He was so thirsty he would have gladly drunk the foul water, but that was not what he was being given. The golden liquid, which he recognized as brandy, trickled between his split lips, into his mouth and down his throat, burning along the way. The first swallow caused him to cough violently, racking his body with more spasms of pain, but he kept drinking, his body craving every precious drop. Gulping down the last of the revitalizing liquid, its warmth spread throughout his body, easing his discomfort ever so slightly. Giddiness overtook him and Erik didn't know whether he should want to laugh or cry at the idea that he might be drunk.

Something tickled against his skin. He tried to brush whatever was doing it away, thinking it one of the creatures who shared the cell with him. What he found instead was that the tattered patient-gown Fournier had given him was being carefully cut away. Cold touched his body, and he shivered as he was quickly sponged clean, then toweled dry. He bit back a groan when clean, coarse-woven clothes were eased onto him, wincing and drawing his arm to his chest to lessen the soreness from his cracked ribs.

"Easy now," the doctor was saying, but whether to him or to one of the others in the room Erik had no way of knowing.

Their preparations completed, several pairs of arms lifted him off the ground and placed him on something relatively soft. Was it a bed? A stretcher? A warm, woolen blanket was wrapped around his emaciated body, and the litter was carried out of the cell. Erik's head rocked gently from side to side, keeping rhythm with the strides of the bearers. As he was borne out of the building, his mysterious savior remained at his side, talking low.

"You'll be safe now. We're taking you away from this place."

_Safe._

The word kept echoing in his head. Erik wanted to know who was telling him this, who he should thank, but the brandy was taking effect and his eyes and mouth remained closed. Once outside a draft of fresh air brushed against his face, and the sun shone down on him from a cloudless sky. After so many days in darkness, the sudden intensity of the light hurt his eyes even through closed lids. He tried squeezing them tighter to diminish the discomfort, wishing he could find his voice and ask that his face be covered. The other man must have noticed his uneasiness.

"Is the light too bright for you? Let me pull your blanket up."

It was such a small gesture, yet Erik wanted to weep with gratitude.

"Over here, in the ambulance," the man said, and Erik knew he was being placed within the vehicle. Once he was inside, he thought he heard a woman gasp.

"No, it's all right. I simply drew up the covers to protect his face."

Now that they were within the shaded confines of the ambulance, someone pulled the blanket away and Erik felt cool fingers softly stroke his temples. It was the most exquisite sensation he had ever experienced. Doors shut, and soon the vehicle lurched forward as it left the sanitarium grounds, its gentle rocking motions both soothing and reassuring. Erik wanted so badly to know who these people were, but he was exhausted beyond all endurance and drifted into a fitful sleep.

-0-0-0-

Inside the ambulance, d'Aubert reviewed their plan one more time. Unfolding a map he had brought with him, d'Aubert indicated a route marked in ink. "From here we shall be going to Courtalain," he demonstrated, pointing to the city southeast of Paris.i "There, I have arranged for a private rail car waiting to take us to Perros-Guirec. The station master has been informed that we are bringing a burn victim with us. If anyone asks, he," he indicated Erik, "is being taken home to be cared for by you, 'Dr. Molyneux'. He also has a private nurse, 'Sister Marie'. It is unlikely that anyone will question us, but we need to keep our stories straight, just in case."

"And you, d'Aubert," asked Anatole, "who will you be?"

"Why, I shall be his brother, of course."

Anatole snorted.

"When we arrive at the station, I shall change into civilian clothes," d'Aubert added, patting a carpet bag resting on the floor.

Garron laughed to himself. "Reynard and Erik d'Aubert. Now why didn't I think of that?"

"Because I'm the detective, and you are the singer."

The drive to Courtalain took the better part of two hours, though to Christine it seemed a lifetime. She resisted the urge to keep looking out the window, searching for signs of pursuit. D'Aubert assured her there was no reason for anyone to follow them. De Chagny was in the south of France for at least two more weeks, and there was nothing in the documents to lead anyone at the sanitarium to suspect that they were nothing more than skillful forgeries.

Christine stared at Erik's unconscious form, her heart breaking at the sight of this once strong and vital man, now so cruelly hurt. She carefully pulled the blanket back, blinking back tears as she picked up a roll of linen bandages. "I'm sorry to have to do this to you, my love," she whispered to him. "It is for your own protection." She thought she saw his eyelids flicker, hoped he would open them and see her, but they remained closed.

Removing a jar of unguent from her basket, she gently dabbed some of it on the worst of his facial wounds, being careful of the ugly purplish bruises and puffy, blackened eyes. She ran her fingers over his deeply sunken cheeks, covered as they were with two weeks' worth of stubble. He looked wasted, almost skeletal. His face appeared to have taken the worst of the abuse, though she could not yet assess the damage to the rest of his body. She was certain that once they got him to a safe place, they would find that his injuries went beyond his face and hands.

"Can you use some help, Christine?" Anatole had joined her at Erik's side.

"Yes. Can you hold his head, like this, so that I can wrap it?" Without hesitating, Anatole gently held Erik's head in his hands. Glancing over at her friend and seeing how careful he was with Erik, she wondered if perhaps Anatole was thinking of his younger brother. Forcing herself to concentrate on the chore at hand, she loosely wrapped the rolls of linen over Erik's damaged face and around his head.

Finished with that task, they then turned their attention to his hands and wrists. There, she saw the raw, open sores caused by the manacles.

"Dear God, what did they do to him in there?" she asked, looking up at Anatole.

He shook his head slowly. "You don't want to know, Christine. Not now, later; when we're in Perros and have more time. I'll tell you then."

Tears welled in her eyes when she inspected his injured fingers, seeing them puffed-up and discolored, the nails broken, torn and caked with dirt.

"Did I ever tell you how much he loves music?" she said to no one in particular. "He plays the piano and the violin…" She brushed away an errant tear with the sleeve of her robe. "I fear they might be permanently damaged," she said, referring to his hands. "Then what will he do?"

"The human body is an amazing thing, Christine. As bad as these injuries look now, they will heal and he will recover. With you at his side to nurse him, how could he not."

Too caught up in the emotions of the moment, Christine was unable to say anything, but continued applying ointment to the wounds. Once Erik's hands and wrists were bandaged, she covered him once again with the blanket.

Erik barely stirred the entire trip. The only sounds he made were a few hushed whimpers when the ambulance drove over a rough section of road. Through it all, Christine sat by his side, sometimes holding his mangled hand, or rubbing his upper arm, always talking to him in soothing tones, anything to reassure him that he was now out of harm's way.

-0-0-0-

It was late afternoon when they arrived at Courtalain. There, the ambulance driver assisted Garron and d'Aubert in carrying their patient inside the private railroad car that waited for them. Inside, they pulled down the sleeping compartment. Christine and Anatole got Erik settled in as comfortably as possible, while d'Aubert excused himself and changed into his civilian clothes. When he returned he went out and spoke privately to the ambulance driver, paying the agreed upon fee as well as a substantial bonus before wishing the man _au revoir_. Back inside the car, he pulled down the shades and locked the doors to ensure their privacy. Then the train pulled out of the station.

It was long past dusk when the train pulled into the station at Perros-Guirec. As promised, another ambulance was waiting to drive them to a modest pink granite house several kilometers outside of town, far from any neighbors. As the vehicle pulled up in front of the stone fence, the welcoming figure of Anna Valérius came out and greeted them. Anatole helped d'Aubert carry Erik into the house, while Christine and Mamma followed closely behind. Once inside, they set to work cleaning and tending wounds, doing what they could to put Erik on the path to convalescence.

-0-0-0-

* * *

This story now has more than 3,000 hits and 103 reviews! Wow, I'm impressed! Thanks ever so much to all of you reading my story. 

HDK


	22. Dreams and Reveries

**Chapter 21  
Dreams and Reveries**

By the next morning, Erik was in the grips of a fever. Knowing that a doctor could not be called in for fear his whereabouts might be accidentally revealed to the wrong people, it fell upon the small household to take care of their own. Christine insisted that she be the one to nurse Erik. The others tried to convince her that they should take turns sitting with him, but the young woman was adamant. She pulled a chair next to his bed, to sit by his side, and with Mamma's help, took a feather tick and some blankets and made up a bed on the floor. That way she could sleep in the same room and not leave Erik unattended until his fever had passed.

For the next three days, all her waking hours were spent tending him through the worst of his illness. She bathed his forehead and neck to cool him and help bring the fever down. She kept cold compresses on his eyes, and spooned soup and water and, when necessary, medicines past his bruised and cracked lips.

Most of the time, he was unconscious. Even during those brief moments when he opened his eyes, they bore no signs of recognition. Pain, illness, and drugs clouded his mind, making him unaware of anyone's presence. At last, late in the evening of the third day, the fever broke and Erik rested more comfortably.

The following morning found Christine at her usual post, her feet tucked under her as she sat in the chair, gazing at the gentle rise and fall of Erik's chest as he slept. Anatole and d'Aubert had left for Paris the day before, promising to return in a couple days with needed supplies, confident that their patient could not have been left in better hands.

"Christine, if you'd like to get some sleep, I can sit with Erik."

She turned to see Mamma Valérius had entered the room to check on both of them. "That's not necessary. I slept most of the night and am sufficiently rested."

Skeptical as to how much sleep her ward had really managed to get during the night, but knowing it would not do any good to argue with her, Mamma came over and gave the girl a kiss on the forehead. "Very well, then, but remember to eat something."

"I will, later."

Having done everything she could for the moment, Anna Valérius left Christine alone with her Angel.

Her reserves of strength were slowly being used up, and Christine was suddenly extremely tired. _I'll just rest my eyes for a minute or two_, she thought, intending only to rest them for a few minutes. No sooner had they shut but she was fast asleep. In her dreams, her mind drifted back to her first encounter with her Angel of Music…

-0-0-0-

_Christine had come to the Opera House only a few months shy of her eighteenth birthday, an unknown singer with some talent and a little training, eager to immerse herself into the world of song. She was an orphan, her father having passed away from a lengthy wasting illness and her mother having died when she was six years old. Christine had few memories of her mother. The woman who was most like a mother to her was Madame Anna Valérius, the widow of Christine's first voice teacher, Professor Gustav Valérius, and a long-time friend of the Daaé's. When Christine's father died, the Valérius's immediately extended an invitation to Christine to come and live with them. _

_Most people saw Mme Valérius as an innocuous old woman, just another gray-haired widow living a life of simplistic innocence. She smiled a lot and had a cheerful disposition that reinforced this image of unsophisticated naivety. But those who took the time to know Anna found that under the façade of simplicity was a woman with a sharp mind and a keen intellect. When Christine asked why she kept this facet of herself hidden, Anna replied that she simply projected what people wanted to see. If they preferred her as the sweet but simple old lady, that was what she would be. _

_She also had a lot of common sense. Having lived for many years in a university environment, Anna was exposed at an early age to progressive ideas. She embraced these ideals, and tried to pass them on to her foster daughter. If there was one think she wanted to teach Christine, it was how to be self-reliant. _

_Mamma Valérius, as Christine preferred to call her, also had a romantic streak. Mamma may have been old, but she remembered only too well what it felt like to be in love. Even after years of widowhood, she greatly missed her beloved Gustav. After Christine had gone to live in Paris and started writing to her about her new voice teacher who she mysteriously referred to as her Angel of Music, Anna knew this was no supernatural being, but a man of flesh and blood. If Christine wanted to call him Angel, so be it. Even the most practical young girl was entitled to flights of fancy now and then. _

-0-0-0-

_One day, Anna sat down with the girl down and asked Christine what she wanted to do with her life._

"_I want to sing on the stage of the Paris Opera," she replied._

"_That will require a lot of work, and a lot of training. You won't have time for a normal life. Your time will be taken up with hours of practice, rehearsals and even more studying. You will be living on your own, too. Perros is too far from Paris for you to commute back and forth. In all likelihood, you will be living in a dormitory, at least at first, away from everything you've known. Are you sure this is what you want?" _

_Christine, her 17-year-old eyes filled with visions of singing on the stage, said yes. And so Mamma Valérius arranged for Christine to go to Paris Opera. The young girl succeeded in auditioning to be a member of the chorus, and threw her entire being into her new life, studying hard and never skimping. But she soon learned that her foster mother had been right about the loneliness. Having to share accommodations in the dormitory did little to alleviate the situation._

_Most of the girls, both in the chorus and in the corps de ballet, had joined the opera when very young and had known each other for many years. They had already formed close-knit circles into which Christine never seemed to fit. Many saw her as aloof and snobbish, when if fact she was shy and introverted, uncomfortable with these others who appeared sophisticated when compared to what Christine saw as her own lack of polish and poise. Oh, they were polite enough to her, but the close friendships she had hoped for never formed. _

_Many a night was spent lying awake in bed, shedding silent tears while the others slept. When she was alone, she would often look for a quiet corner and talk to her father, asking his advice and counsel. But in her heart, she knew her father would not be able to help her. Whatever she was to make of her life, she would have to earn it on her own. _

_After a few months, Christine's hard work began paying off. The musical director, Monsieur Villeneuve, noticed the improvement in her singing. Soon she was promoted her from the chorus and given minor roles in several productions. With her change of status came a dressing room of her own. _

_The room was a small one, little more than a large closet with a cot for sleeping and a wardrobe for her clothes. As in all the other rooms, a large mirror hung on the back wall. Regardless of its shortcomings, it was her own, and for that reason, she loved it all the more. It also allowed her the privacy that had been lacking in the dormitory, and on those nights when she felt loneliest, when she missed her father and Mamma Valérius the most, she could indulge herself in the comfort of crying without worrying about being overheard. _

_She had been in her new room for almost a month when she first heard The Voice. It had been a particularly bad time for Christine, nearing the anniversary of her father's death, and in her solitude, she was beginning to wonder if coming to the Paris Opera had been the right thing to do. One night, before going to bed, she prayed to her father. She asked him to send her a sign, something to let her know that she had made the right choice. That night she dreamed someone was singing to her. It was a man's voice, soft and sweet, whose wordless song brought her comfort. The next morning, the memory of that dream was still strong. She smiled, certain that this was the sign she had asked for. _

_Over the next several weeks, The Voice, as she began to think of it, visited her again and again, always in her dreams and leaving her feeling at peace. As the dreams continued, Christine began to question if in fact they were dreams. Sometimes The Voice seemed so real she was sure that if she only reached out, she could touch it. Her curiosity piqued, she determined to discover the truth. One night, after turning down the lights and slipping under the covers of her small bed, she pretended to sleep. _

_At first, nothing happened. The only sound she heard was the faint ticking of the clock. She was about to give up and go to sleep in earnest when at last The Voice came. Its melody was faint at first, then grew stronger, as if someone was walking towards her. Even more peculiar, it seemed to be coming from behind the mirror. Or maybe it only sounded as if it were coming from the mirror. It occurred to Christine that if The Voice belonged to an angel singing to her, he could be floating…anywhere! _

_Afraid that any movement on her part would frighten The Voice away, she remained motionless. When the song came to an end, Christine wanted to cry. Without The Voice, her room seemed ugly and barren._

_The next day she considered these nocturnal visits. She was not by nature superstitious, but was it possible that she was being visited by the Angel of Music her father used to speak of? No, she thought. Those were beautiful stories but they were just that – stories. But if it wasn't an angel, then that meant The Voice was a real person. Then who? And why would he be singing to her in the middle of the night? Why would he not introduce himself? _

_Christine made up her mind that she was going to learn his identity. She would stay awake tonight, and when The Voice came, she would ask him to reveal himself. The thought of doing this was more than a little daunting, but her inquisitiveness was stronger than her fear._

_The day seemed to drag on forever, but it finally came to a close. Christine kept to her usual routine. If her mysterious singer were watching, she did not want to tip him off to the fact that she had something planned for this night. At last, it came time to turn down the lights and go to bed. _

_Christine lay in bed, shivering with anticipation. She was so excited that she could not have gone to sleep if she wanted to. But as she lay there, a thought came to her. What if The Voice did not come tonight? She recalled that there had been a number of nights when The Voice did not visit her. What if tonight was one of them? Christine shook such ideas from her head. No, The Voice would come. He had to. Calming herself, she concentrated on listening for the first faint strains of music._

_She was not disappointed. As the song progressed, Christine took a deep breath and called out. "Who are you?" The Voice stopped and Christine panicked. What have I done? she thought. Have I startled him, driven him away? "Who are you?" she asked once again. "Are you the Angel of Music sent by my father?" _

_Again, no reply. _

_Christine tossed back the covers and got out of bed. She moved slowly and deliberately to the center of her room, not wanting to alarm or startle The Voice any more than she already had. She stood there, her eyes scanning the room, seeking any sign that someone else was there with her. The stillness was almost overpowering. _

"_Whoever you are, I just want to thank you. Your music has brought me such peace, such comfort. Please, won't you tell me who you are? Won't you let me see you?" _

_Nothing._

"_Please…please, won't you tell me who you are?" _

_The only answer was silence. The Voice had gone. _

_The next days were among the most difficult in Christine Daaé's young life – The Voice did not return. It was like losing her father again, the pain was so great. She continued with her practice and rehearsals, but her movements were mechanical and her singing, unfeeling. Her face was pale and drawn from crying herself to sleep, and M. Villeneuve feared that she might be ill and excused her for the day. She made her way to her room, feeling lost and abandoned. Someone brought her a tray for supper, but she only picked at her food, leaving most of it untouched. Night finally came. _

_Lying in bed, waiting for sleep to overtake her, Christine made one last attempt to communicate with The Voice. "Angel, or whoever you are, if you can hear me, please…I'm sorry. I didn't mean to upset you. I only wanted to know who you are." Then she fell asleep._

_That night The Voice returned. Christine heard it and laid perfectly still, allowing the song to come to an end. When it was finished, Christine spoke up. "Thank you for coming back tonight," she said softly. She expected the same lack of response, but something different happened this time. The Voice spoke back to her, a man's rich baritone voice, the kind that could make young ladies shiver with delight._

"_Christine, I'm sorry I left so abruptly the other night. It's only that…you startled me." _

_Christine's heart beat quicker. He was talking to her. What should she do now? _

"_I hope that you do not think me too forward," The Voice was saying, "but I have been watching you during your rehearsals and practice sessions, and believe you to have a most exquisite voice. It needs work, yes…but the talent is there. Perhaps you would allow me to teach you…" The Voice stopped suddenly, as if fearing he had said too much. _

_Christine sat up, not knowing if she should be pleased with this assessment of her talent, or angered that someone had been watching her without her knowledge. "Who are you? Are you the Angel of Music?"_

"_No, Christine," The Voice replied with what sounded like a hint of sadness. "I'm not an angel, though I thank you for thinking that I was. It's just that I saw that you were lonely, and thought to ease your solitude. I too know what it is to be lonely."_

_She hesitated, wondering if this stranger was actually one of the men of the opera company, that this was all some elaborate joke to take advantage of her naivety. "That is very kind of you," she finally said, "but won't you show yourself to me, tell me who you are?" _

"_Are you sure you want to know?"_

"_Yes," Christine replied confidently, taking a deep breath to steady her nerves. "I do." _

"_Then walk through the mirror." _

_She blinked in bewilderment. Did he just say she should walk through the mirror? "I…I don't understand. How can I…walk through the mirror?" _

"_Stand before it and you shall see."_

_Steeling herself, Christine got out of the bed and began walking towards the mirror, but stopped suddenly. "Shouldn't I put my robe on, first?" After a second thought, she added, "Perhaps I should get dressed…"_

"_B-but, of course." The Voice sounded rattled, as if he had not considered so mundane a request._

_Moving behind the dressing screen, Christine hurriedly cast off her nightgown and grabbed the first dress she could find, then walked over to the mirror. She gasped in surprise as she watched the glass slowly pivot around, revealing a long, dimly lit corridor. And on the other side of the mirror was the tall, dark figure of a man. He bowed his head to her and then held out his hand, offering to guide her to…who knew where. _

_Christine should have been frightened, but was surprised to find that she wasn't. If this man had wanted to harm her, he could have done so on any of the other nights when he had sung to her. She looked at him standing in the dark before her, and asked, "You say you are not an angel. If not, then what are you?"_

_She thought she heard what sounded like sad, quiet laughter, then he answered, "No, Christine, I am no angel. I'm only a man."_

"_What is your name?"_

"_My name is Erik."_

"_Erik" She repeated the name, liking the way it sounded. "It's a good name. A strong name. I like it."_

_She thought she saw a faint smile play across what she could see of Erik's face. "Would you care to come with me?" he asked._

_And Erik escorted Christine to his subterranean realm._

-0-0-0-

Christine woke with a start. Standing up, she rolled her head as she tried to work out the kink she had gotten from sleeping in the chair. She hadn't meant to fall asleep, did not want Erik to wake up thinking he was alone, not knowing where he was. A quick glance reassured her that no harm had come from her dozing off. The gentle knocking at the bedroom door brought her to her feet.

Mamma Valérius had returned, this time bringing with her a tray of soup and a slice of freshly baked bread. Not for the first time did Christine bestow silent blessings on the woman who had been a second mother to her for so many years. Mamma had not only accepted Erik unconditionally, though he was at present unaware of this, but she had also opened her house to the two of them without ever giving it a second thought.

"And how's our patient doing this afternoon?" Mme Valérius asked in her heavily accented French, keeping her voice low as she set the tray on a nearby table.

"He's still sleeping."

"You should be, too, young lady. It will do neither of you any good if you collapse from fatigue," Mamma gently chided.

"I did sleep a little in the chair this afternoon. As a matter of fact, I was doing just that before you came here."

"And you've hardly eaten, either. You'll waste away to nothing."

"I haven't been hungry."

Mamma Valérius wasn't going to be put off again. "You should still eat something, child. Here, I've made some vegetable soup from some tasty beef stock. You don't even have to go to the kitchen; I've brought it here for you. If you'd like, I can sit with you while you eat."

Christine hugged Mamma. "You don't have to stay up here with me. You have enough to do around the house, and I promise I'll eat the soup."

"All right, my dear. Believe me; I understand what you're going through. Just don't wear yourself out is all," she said before leaving the room.

Christine walked to the table and smelled the soup. Her stomach growled, letting her know that whether she realized it or not, she was hungry. _All right_, she told herself, _I'll eat_. But first, she walked back over to the bed. Easing herself down next to Erik, she took one of his hands into her own, kissing it. Then she kissed his face. "Sleep well, my angel."

* * *

For those of you who may not be familiar with the term, a feather tick is a light mattress or mattress cover, obviously stuffed with feathers. Think of it as a kind of over-stuffed feather comforter.


	23. A Heavenly Vision

**Chapter 22  
A Heavenly Vision **

Voices floated in the air as Erik tried to rouse himself. He made several attempts to open his eyes and see who was talking. Though his injuries were healing, the swelling around his eyes had not completely abated and his vision was still distorted. He turned his head slightly. Across the room, he saw a man and a woman standing together. Their backs were to him, their voices were low. Squinting, he tried bringing them into focus only to be rewarded with an increase in the throbbing in his head.

_No_, _don't wake up. Go back to sleep. This is all some sort of dream. You're only seeing what you want to see. If you wake up, you'll only find yourself back in that hellhole. Whoever these people are, you don't want to know – they'll only hurt you again. Close your eyes and go back to sleep, back to oblivion. _

Erik closed his eyes and heard nothing more.

Time passed, or was it just his imagination? There was a conversation taking place nearby. Erik told himself he did not care what they were saying, but found himself drawn to their words nonetheless.

"How is he doing today?"

That was the man's voice. It sounded familiar, like the man who had spoken to him in his cell. But there was something else about the voice, something… It was so hard to think with his head pounding. He tried again. Where else had he heard that voice? He tried imagining that same voice singing. Might he have heard it at the opera? Erik's frustration grew. He should know whose voice that was, but the name would not come to him.

"His fever's broken," said a woman, "but he hasn't woken up. I've managed to get him to take some soup. Only a little bit at a time, but at least he is getting some nourishment."

Were they talking about him? They must be. Who were they? Who was _she?_ He knew her! He knew them both, but their identities remained on the edge of his consciousness. The effort was becoming too much for him. The voices droned on, like the buzzing of bees on a summer afternoon, and he listened only distantly, paying them little heed.

"Do you think we should continue giving him laudanum?" That was the woman again, speaking clearly enough so that he did not have to exert himself to understand what she was saying.

"I wish I really were a doctor, not just somebody who pretended to be one. I don't know. If he appears to be in pain, I would say yes. I am sure it is best that he get as much rest as possible. I'm sure that if he were awake he would be in great deal of discomfort." There was a brief silence. "I think it would be best if we allowed him to sleep as much as possible for a few days. Keep giving him broth and water when he wakes, in small amounts. It's obvious they didn't give him much to eat while being held in that place. As for the laudanum, I would suggest giving him only a very small dose when needed, increasing the amount if necessary." There was another period of silence. "Has he spoken to you at all?"

"No. The few times he opened his eyes he didn't seem to actually be seeing anything. I'm not sure he's aware of anything right now." Whoever she was, her voice was colored with sorrow. It made Erik sad to hear that in such a beautiful, angelic voice.

"I wouldn't worry too much. He's been through a lot. I'm sure the lack of recognition is due in large part to the medicines. It is reassuring to hear that he's opened his eyes a few times; that in itself is a very good sign. With those blows to his head, I would be far more concerned if he were to slip into a coma and not wake up, as that could be a symptom of his suffering from a severe concussion."

Their voices lowered again, and their conversation seemed to be coming to an end. They walked away, then stopped and spoke again, this time from further across the room.

"I shall return in two days." The man was saying. "In the mean time, if you need anything at all, if there is any change in his condition, you must not hesitate to wire me."

Murmured words of thanks were followed by the sound of a door opening and then closing ever so quietly. Erik heard the man walking down a flight of and out a door. The woman's lighter tread returned towards his bedside, where she stopped.

"Sleep well, my Angel," he heard her whisper, and felt the cool touch of her lips upon his forehead. More certain than ever that this was all part of his delirium, he drifted back to sleep.

Erik felt as though he were floating on a cloud, as though time had stopped.

_How long have I been sleeping?_

Even with his eyes closed, he could sense the light. And off in the distance…was that a bird he heard singing?

_Have I gone mad? Is this all some sort of apparition, a hallucination? Am I dead? Is this some sort of afterlife?_

But if he were dead, then why did his body ache so? No, Erik concluded, he wasn't dead. His head was beginning to clear, his thoughts becoming more lucid.

_Where am I? If I open my eyes, what will I see?_

And so Erik decided it was time to wake up and look around. His eyelids fluttered from the effort. He was surprised to discover that something as simple as opening one's eyes could be so tiresome. Once they were open, he had to blink several times to get them to work together. His vision cleared and he looked around, trying to find anything familiar with his surroundings.

The first thing he noticed was that he was laying in a bed on soft, clean sheets, a trapunto-work quilt pulled up to his chest, his head resting on down-filled pillows. He also found that he was clean. Someone had washed his body and shaved the stubbly beard that had grown during his incarceration, and he was no longer wearing torn and soiled clothes, but was clad in a soft, linen nightshirt. He felt the slight flush of embarrassment as he wondered who had cleaned him up.

His arms were resting at his sides, and he saw that his wrists and hands were bandaged, as no doubt were other parts of his body. Lifting his hands slightly, he saw that a couple of fingers were splinted. Purple bruises showed through the bandages, and he tried flexing the others fingers, wondering if he still had control of them. He kept his movements to a minimum, not wishing to draw unwanted attention to himself. He may not be in his cell, but he still did not know exactly where he was, could not be sure who might be watching. Satisfying himself that his fingers still worked and that no one seemed to have noticed their slight movements, Erik continued his survey of the room.

Judging from the furnishings, it looked as though he was in a country home. It was obvious that this was somebody's bedroom. From some of the feminine touches he saw, very possibly a woman's room. The only thing he knew for certain it that it wasn't his. From what he could remember of Christine's flat, it wasn't hers, either. There was nothing the least bit fancy concerning anything in the room. The furniture was sturdy and functional – a standing wardrobe and a bureau – but the solid look was softened by the crocheted doilies and runners that covered them. The walls were covered in a soft blue-and-cream damask print, and lace curtains hung in the window opposite his bed, giving the room a light and airy feel. Sunshine flooded into the room, and through the glass panes, he could see the branches of a nearby tree in the first bud of spring. A skylark was perched on a limb, warbling.

_So the bird wasn't a dream._

He continued his examination and noticed several pictures hanging on the walls, still life paintings of flowers and fruits and lace-covered tabletops.

Erik eased his head to the left and paused, closing his eyes while waiting for a wave of nausea to pass. When he opened them again, he noticed a small square table covered with bottles of medicine and several drinking glasses. A pitcher of water was there, too. A small vase filled with paper-white narcissuses added to the cheeriness of the room. Next to his bed was wingback a chair. Curled in the chair, wearing a plain dress of dark blue with a white crocheted shawl pulled over her shoulders, was the sleeping form of Christine Daaé.

Even in sleep, she looked exhausted. Dark smudges under her eyes spoke of hours spent without rest. Erik realized immediately that it had indeed been Christine's voice he had been hearing, that it was she who had been at his side, nursing him day and night, for however long he had been here. As much as he wanted to speak to her, to touch her, to hold her in his arms, he knew she should not be wakened just yet. It was obvious that she was in need of rest as much as he was, and Erik found that he was exhausted as well.

His damaged body still ached, but for the first time since before his abduction, he knew he was safe and was able to relax. His head sank back into the down-filled pillow and he let out a soft sigh of relief as he closed his eyes, allowing the tenseness that had crept into his body to ease away. No, he smiled to himself, he wasn't dead, but he was most certainly in Heaven. Was that not an angel sleeping in the chair by the side of his bed?

He was fairly certain now that one of the voices who'd spoken to him earlier had belonged to the singer, Anatole Garron. Why Garron would have been helping him, Erik had no way of knowing, but there would be time for questions and answers later. For now, a faint smile spread across his lips as he fell into a restful, healing sleep.

* * *


	24. Healing

A new chapter, in which we learn Erik's last name! (Yes, he has one.) Another big thank you to my beta, Lizzy, whose input is invaluable, and who is a great person to turn to when stuck with how to explain something. Oh, and she's real good at picking up grammatical "issues," too. Any that remain in the story are mine -- all mine!

HDKingsbury

**Chapter 23  
Healing**

**-0-0-0-**

Christine looked up from the book she was reading, and was pleasantly surprised to see that Erik was awake and looking at her, the faintest trace of a smile on his battered lips. "How long have you been awake?" she asked, setting the book aside and coming to sit next to him on the bed.

"Not very long." His voice was hoarse and low, as from lack of use.

"Are you thirsty? Would you like some water?" She poured him a glass and helped him hold it as he drank.

When he finished, he laid his head back onto the pillows and looked around. "Where are we?"

"Mamma's house. In my old bedroom, as a matter of fact." She reached out and pushed a stray lock of hair from his forehead, partly to check for any recurrence of his fever, but mostly because she wanted to touch him, to reassure herself that he was truly back with her. She was surprised when she heard him chuckle.

"After taking an extended detour, it seems I have finally made it here." Then he became serious as his eyes looked off towards the window. His expression told her he was thinking about something unpleasant, and his face looked pained when his gaze returned to her and he asked, "Do you…know where they were holding me?"

"In a so-called sanitarium, run by an odious man named Delacroix."

Nodding slightly, he took note of her look of concern and tried to make light of the matter. "Remind me not to recommend the accommodations to anyone." There was another period of silence as he closed his eyes, waiting for a spasm of pain to pass. Opening them again, he asked, "How bad?"

Christine knew he meant how badly was he hurt. "Bad enough. But it could have been much worse," she quickly added to reassure him. "Thankfully, you've passed the crisis. You were very sick with a fever for almost four days."

"I've been here that long?"

"Yes."

"What else?"

"You have some cracked ribs, but no punctures of the lungs. And you do not appear to have suffered any serious internal injuries."

Erik listened, attempting to assess the damage from a strictly analytical point of view.

"There are a number of bruises, as well as some very nasty sores and several cuts, especially on your face. And you may have a few loose teeth."

He ran his tongue around the inside of his mouth as she mentioned that last item. "I seem to have them all, at least." Then he held up his bandaged hands and noticed that some of the fingers on both hands were splinted. "What about these?"

"Mostly bruised and sprained. A couple were broken, but they were clean breaks and we were able to set them easily enough." She remembered Anatole's words in the ambulance. "They will heal, Erik. You will play again, and I shall sing for you."

He looked once again out the window, at the buds covering the tree branches outside. "What is the date today?" The last he recalled it was late-February and snow was falling.

"Today is Wednesday, the 16th of March."

His brow furrowed as he tried to make some calculations. "Almost three weeks," he said softly, more to himself than to Christine. Erik let out his breath and they sat quietly for a few moments, comfortable in each other's presence.

Though the crisis was past, Christine was still concerned. There was no more fever, he was alert and cognizant of his surroundings, but he was still very thin, very weak.

"Are you hungry?" she asked.

"A little."

"Would you like something to eat? Something easy to digest, perhaps some milk toast?"

He held up his hands. "I may need some help."

"I suspect that can be arranged," she said as she smiled. "It will take a few minutes to heat up the milk toast. Why don't you rest your eyes till then?"

"I may fall back to sleep."

'Then I shall have to waken you."

"With a kiss?"

Just hearing him respond with some of his old humor made Christine's heart sing. It was like having a heavy burden removed, and she wanted to cry with joy. "Yes," she answered, "with a kiss." Leaning closer, she did just that – kissed him gently on his bruised lips. Rising from the bed, she smiled back at him one more time before going down to the kitchen.

"Christine?"

She stopped and turned. "Yes, Erik?"

"I…I was wondering. Who washed and dressed me while I was sick?"

She could not suppress the impish grin that broke out on her face, but she refused to answer. "I'll go make that milk toast," was all she would say, and she walked out the door.

A few minutes later, Christine returned carrying a tray. Behind her came Mamma with a bed table. Ignoring his attempts to turn his face from her view, Mamma aided Erik in sitting up, propping several pillows behind his back. Placing the bed table across his lap, the older woman said, "We haven't had a chance to be formally introduced," her Swedish accent still discernable. "I am Anna Valérius. You may call me Anna, or Mamma, but no Madame, no formalities here."

Erik had not been expecting to meet this obviously very kind woman with his face exposed. What did it matter that she had been helping to care for him these past days? He had not been conscious then. But he was awake now, and very much aware that she could see him for what he was. He looked to Christine for help, but she stood back, watching the two of them. Finally, he was able to rasp, "My name is Erik…Erik duBois."

"DuBois? Christine Daaé duBois," he heard Christine say more to herself that to either Mamma or him. She looked down at her engagement ring, then back at Erik. "I like the way it sounds."

"Welcome to my home, Erik duBois. I am pleased to meet you at last. Christine has told me so much about you." Erik instinctively brought up his hand to cover the right side of his face, but Anna took hold of it and gently pulled it away. "Please, there is no need for that while you are here," was all she would say concerning his face. "Now then, are you hungry? Would you like some chamomile tea sweetened with honey to go along with your breakfast?"

-0-0-0-

Erik woke up in darkness. Something felt wrong. A quick look around showed him he was no longer in the bedroom at Mamma Valérius's house, but he could not see clearly enough to know where was. He reached his hand out and felt a brick wall. Then it struck him – he was back in the sanitarium.

Panic set in. Had de Chagny discovered where he was staying, had him kidnapped again? How could this have happened? They must have snuck into the house, chloroformed him and brought him back to the sanitarium. And what about Christine and Mamma Valérius? Were they safe? His heart pounded quicker as the door creaked open. There is the doorway stood Fournier.

"Ah, you've come to pay us another visit, _Monsieur Freak_?"

Erik looked down at his wrists and ankles. Why had he not seen them before, the chains that once again restrained him? The old phrase about one's blood running cold was suddenly a very real thing for Erik.

The thug glared malevolently. "It ain't gonna be so easy gettin' away this time_, mon ami!_" Lunging forward, he grabbed Erik by collar of his night shirt and pinned him up against the wall. "Whadya got to say now?" he snarled, his rancid breath hot against Erik's face. Maintaining his hold on Erik with one hand, Fournier made a fist with his other and punched him in the stomach. Laughing, he released Erik, watching as he doubled over, clutching his midsection.

Still weakened from his previous ordeal, Erik could offer little resistance. The best he could do was assume a defensive position on the floor. Curling himself into a ball, he covered his head with his arms as Fournier continued to rain blows down upon him.

"You miserable cur. How dare you look at me? How dare you show your face to me and insult me? You have made me the laughing stock of Rouen, you and your face! How dare you!"

Erik looked up at the sound of that voice. It was no longer Fournier standing over him, but his Father. How could this be? He looked at the room. Gone were the chains, the fetid cell. Instead, he found that he was back in his parents' house near Rouen. He was a little boy again, crying as his father berated him.

"I'm sorry, Papa. I won't do it again. I won't leave my room without my mask. Please, don't hit me anymore. Please," he begged. "I won't do it anymore."

"Filthy pig!"

He begged. He cried. He pleaded. "I'm sorry, Papa. I'm sorry…"

"Erik, what's wrong?"

"_Maman_, is that you?"

Erik woke with a start. His breathing was ragged and his heart was beating wildly. He looked around and saw he was back in his bedroom, and that Christine was sitting on the bed next to him.

-0-0-0-

As soon as she heard Erik cry out, Christine had hurried from her makeshift pallet and rushed to his bedside. She saw him tossing his head from side to side, his eyes tightly clenched as tears streamed down his cheeks and onto the pillow, and knew he must have been reliving a personal hell.

"It's all right, Erik. You're having a nightmare."

Christine sat down next to him on the bed. She talked to him, keeping her voice low and even so as to help him calm down. At last, he woke up.

She knew that though he would never mention it, it hurt him to be displaying such weakness. He had always been strong, self-reliant. She could tell by some of his recent actions that he was uncomfortable with having to depend on others to help him do even simple tasks such as getting out of bed. And now to have her see him terrified by a dream! She wanted him to know she understood.

"I'm…I'm sorry to have awakened you," he said. "I…I didn't realize I had said anything out loud. I hope I didn't frighten you."

She remembered what Erik had told her about his father, and could not help thinking that at this moment, while the realism of the dream still clung to him, he sounded like a frightened little boy.

"There's nothing to apologize for. We can't control our dreams." She watched his face as he struggled to regain his self-control. He needed something to help take his mind off the images that were still fresh in his mind, so she kept talking. "I remember how distressing they can be. Do you recall when I first came to the opera house, and I would cry myself to sleep? And you would come to me?"

Thinking back on those early meetings was something that brought back happy memories for both of them. She continued watching him closely, noting that his breathing was becoming more regular. The frightened look was gone from his face. He was calmer now. That was good. She went over to the table and lit the oil lamp so its light could dispel any shadows still lurking within and without.

"I always found it hard to go back to sleep after a bad dream," she said, keeping her voice very matter-of-fact. "Perhaps you would like a sleeping draught?"

Reluctantly, he accepted her offer. "I have never had to rely on sleeping aids, but I don't think I want to be visited by another such dream."

Picking up the pitcher, Christine poured a glass of water. Stirring in the sleeping powder that was among the various medicines on his bedside table, she handed the glass to Erik. Supporting himself on one elbow, he allowed her to help him hold the glass as he drank its contents. Then he eased himself back onto the pillows and closed his eyes, concentrating on letting the potion do its work.

"Do you remember how you used to come to me at night and ease my fears?" she asked.

Erik nodded. "I would sing to you."

"Would you like me to sing to you?" She hummed the melody at first, then sang. They were the words from an old song her mother taught her, and as she sang, she watched Erik's body relax.

_Hear those bells ringing soft and low,  
Bringing peace through the twilight glow.  
Calling to everyone, "Night has begun.  
Set down your weary toils, day's work is done."  
Hear them ring while my love and I  
Drift and dream to this lullaby._

When she finished, his eyes flickered open. "What song is that?" he asked, his voice thick with sleep.

"A lullaby my mother used to sing to me."

He smiled sadly. "My mother never sang to me." The sleeping draught was taking effect, and Erik was having trouble keeping his eyes open.

"Shall I sing it again?"

Erik nodded slightly as the song lulled him back to sleep.

-0-0-0-

**Author's Notes: **Thank you to everyone who continues reading this story. I thought there would only be a few more chapters to go, but now it is looking like there could be at least ten more. And now for the notes to go with this chapter.

**Milk toast** is a breakfast food consisting mainly, though not entirely, of toasted bread dipped in or covered in hot milk into which a small amount of butter has been melted. Cinnamon and raisins may be added. Milk toast was a popular food throughout the late 19th century and early 20th century, especially for young children and for the ailing, for whom the food was thought to be soothing and easy to digest. Although not as popular today, milk toast is still considered a comfort food.

-0-0-0-

I did a little research into the meaning of surnames. Erik's family name in this story is duBois, which is an ancient French surname that comes from the Old French "bois" meaning wood. It was a French place name, given to a man who lived or worked in the woods or worked as a woodcutter.

-0-0-0-

The song "Lullaby of the Bells" is from the 1943 film, _The Phantom of the Opera,_ and is yet another little tribute to the movie that started me on the road to Phandom. The music was composed by Edward Ward, with lyrics by G. Waggner.


	25. Journey of Discovery

**Chapter 24  
****Journey of Discovery**

**-0-0-0-**

It was nearing the end of March. Two weeks had passed since being brought to Mamma's house in Perros, and Erik had reached the point where he was feeling well enough to be bored with staying in bed. Uninterested with the book he had been trying to read, he considered whether to go downstairs, but the familiar pangs of anxiety struck because he would have to do so with his face exposed. If Christine had been with him, the two would probably be discussing the latest book she was reading, or the most recent musical news. But she was not. She told him when she brought his breakfast to his room that Anatole Garron was expected later today, and now she was downstairs helping Mamma, probably preparing dinner or engaged in some other domestic chores.

Garron had been making regular visits to the Valérius house, and in the process was becoming indispensable. Whenever he called, he would get a list from Mamma and run errands for the two women so they could concentrate on taking care of Erik. Sometimes he brought a _boîte à sucre, _a box of sweets filled with the chocolate truffles Christine loved so much, or newspapers for Erik. Other times he would bring more practical items, such as medicines from the apothecary. Anatole also kept Christine abreast as to what was happening back in Paris and the latest gossip from the opera house, and remained their go-between with Reynard d'Aubert, who had returned to Paris but was still keeping track of those who had been involved in the late unpleasantness.

As far as Erik was concerned, though, Garron's greatest accomplishment was that the baritone could look him straight in the face and never once bat a lash over his appearance. Erik's greatest worry since waking up in Mamma's house was not having his mask. If there had just been Christine, it would not have mattered as much. She had seen his face many times and was comfortable with it. But allowing others to see his true self? That was much harder, yet there was nothing he could do about it at the present.

Only yesterday, he had brought the subject up to Christine. She commiserated with him and explained how she had found the mask he had been wearing that fateful night in February. Unfortunately, it was still back in her Paris flat. He told her he had other masks as well as hair pieces, but they too were back in Paris, in his own house by the lake. And even if he had them here, he would not have been able to wear them, at least not now. Not until some of the injuries to his face were healed.

Christine insisted all along that neither Anatole nor Mamma thought any less of him because of his appearance, and it seemed that she was correct. Never once had either of them said or done anything to ever make Erik feel other than accepted within their small circle of friendship. But that did not mean he was comfortable with it.

Mask or no mask, he decided he needed a change of scenery. He got up, and picked up the robe Mamma had brought him a few days ago off the back of the chair Christine usually sat in. Looking down at his bare feet, Erik considered adding shoes or slippers to Garron's list, as all he presently had to wear were the stockings Mamma had quickly knit for him. Still tiring easily, he sat down in the chair and pulled the stockings over his feet.

Then he took a deep breath and prepared to leave his room. Using a cane in one hand – another gift from Anatole – and his other hand on the wall for support, Erik slowly worked his along the hallway and down the stairs. Others might have looked upon this as a small accomplishment, but Erik was quite proud of himself. He could not wait to see the look on Christine's face when she saw him up and about.

Heading towards the parlor, he heard Anatole's voice and realized that he was here already. Repressed feelings of unworthiness unexpectedly came out of hiding as Erik entered the room and saw Christine talking animatedly with the other man. There they were, sitting on the sofa, talking. Nothing untoward by any means. But the dark thoughts that had come to him while he had been imprisoned, of releasing Christine, struck again. Furious at himself for letting these emotions get out of hand, he shoved them back. There was no reason for them, he scolded himself. Forcing himself to stand straighter, Erik walked in. He knew he would have to confront these feelings once and for all, or have them constantly nagging at him, tearing him apart inside.

"Good afternoon, Monsieur duBois." Anatole stood up, smiling as he extended his hand in friendship.

"Good afternoon," Erik replied, swallowing hard and forcing himself to return the man's smile with one of his own while awkwardly offering his own bandaged hand.

"Here, won't you have this seat?" Anatole said, directing Erik to the seat next to Christine.

She, in turn, was immediately at Erik's side, assisting him as he walked over to the sofa. Her face was glowing with happiness. "I had no idea you were feeling well enough to come downstairs on your own."

"I wanted to surprise you." Looking down at his stockinged feet, he added, "Although, if I'm going to be walking around, I suspect I would benefit from a pair of slippers."

Grabbing an afghan from one of the other chairs, she made sure it was tucked about his feet and then sat down next to him. Garron took another chair on the other side of the room.

"Anatole was telling me the latest gossip."

"Anything interesting?" Erik asked, trying to keep his unease from showing.

"Not really. Since Christine has been absent from the opera house, Carlotta has returned with a vengeance. So I dare say neither of you is missing anything. By the way, I must say, you are looking much better, M. duBois, and in only a little over two weeks." Anatole looked over at Christine. "You must have a good nurse."

"Yes," Erik said, reaching for her hand, "and she is an angel."

The three of them spent the next hour talking about this and that, a completely new experience for Erik who was unused to making small talk with friends. Christine invited Anatole to stay for supper.

"I'm afraid I can't stay much longer, as I am taking the 2 o'clock train back to Paris," he said as he glanced down at his pocket watch. He looked across the room at Erik. "I was telling Christine earlier that if either of you need anything to let me know. But I will probably be back in two days, so if there is anything I can bring back for you…? A pair of slippers, perhaps?" Anatole asked, his little wink telling Erik that this was all a good-natured joke.

Erik did his best to respond in kind. "_Merci_, M. Garron. That would be…most appreciated."

"_De rien. _It's nothing. And we must dispense with all these formalities. Henceforth, I would prefer it if you would simply call me Anatole. Well then, I shall say _au revoir _to the two of you."

Christine walked Anatole to the door, then returned to the parlor and helped make Erik comfortable, bringing him some pillows to rest against. She also brought out a blanket, as it was still early spring and the room could sometimes be chilly. Satisfied with her ministrations, she sat down next to him.

"I can tell you're still ill at ease around Anatole. I hope that one day you and he will be friends. He's a very good person."

"Yes, he is indeed," Erik finally said. "It…it still amazes me that he can look upon my face without recoiling."

"He has a greater understanding for your situation than you realize, Erik. Perhaps one day, when the two of you are more comfortable with each other, he can tell you why."

Erik pondered this comment, then looked at her. She seemed so happy, sitting next to him, but he wanted to do what was right. It would break his heart to give her up, but if it would be for the best, then that was what he would do.

"You like him very much, don't you, Christine?"

"Why, yes. He's been a good friend, even before all this terrible business. I hate to think what might have happened to you if he had not been there to help."

What she was saying was true. He was alive because of Garron's help, and the other man he'd briefly met, the one named d'Aubert. But they did not help him for his own sake; rather it was done for Christine's. At least, that was what he had been telling himself these past days. The idea that someone would come to his aid because it was the right thing to do was still new to him, and he was having trouble adjusting to this manner of thinking.

"A woman could do a lot worse than to marry him."

"I suppose that's true," she replied thoughtfully, resting her head upon his shoulder, seemingly content. "But why are you saying this to me, Erik?"

"Back in the sanitarium, I had a lot of time to think. I am a…difficult person to live with, though I've tried to convince myself otherwise." He looked down at the gold band she wore, the one he gave her on Christmas Eve. "Christine, if it is your wish, I will not hold you to your promise."

She was confused. "My promise? What promise do you mean?"

Closing his eyes, he took a deep breath. "Our engagement. I know that you care for M. Garron, and that he cares for you. He can give you the things I never can..." He could not bring himself to finish what he had started to say.

"Is that what you think? That I wish to be released from our engagement so that I can marry Anatole?" Christine would have laughed at the absurdity of the suggestion if it weren't that Erik was very serious. She leaned closer, putting her arms around his neck. "You dear, sweet, silly man. What must I do to convince you once and for all that there is no one I want more than you? I want to love you, and be loved by you. I want to be your wife. I want us to have a house of our own and fill it with many children."

He opened his eyes and looked at her. She saw the surprise on his face.

"Yes, children. I want to grow old with you." With her fingers, she caressed his face, being careful of those places that were still sore. With one hand on the back of his head, she drew him nearer and kissed him – first on the cheek, then on the lips, and could feel him respond to her tender passion. "And when we're alone in our house, I want to see you – not a piece of leather. We cannot change the intolerance that exists in this world, but that doesn't mean we have to bring it into our home."

"But…"

"No buts, my love. Mamma once told me that marriage is a journey of discovery between two people, and I am eager to begin ours. Now, I want no more talk of sadness…"

-0-0-0-

**Author's Notes:**

More fun with names. Garron is pronounced _GARE-on_. It is of Irish and Gaelic origin, and its meaning is "gelding." From the Gaelic word "gearran." A garron or garran is a type of horse. The term occurs in Scotland and in Ireland, and generally refers to an undersized and much-despised beast. It is also possibly from the French, meaning "guardian." Anatole is of Greek origin, and its meaning is "break of day." A variant of the name is found in Anatolia, a region of Turkey, east of Greece.

_boîte à sucre_ -- sweets box, or box of sweets


	26. Like Two Spoons

My muse has been kind to me tonight, and has allowed me to get two more chapters nearly completed. Therefore, I present you with chapter 25. Besides, we all need a little E/C fluff now and then.

HDKingsbury

* * *

**Chapter 25  
Like Two Spoons**

**-0-0-0-**

_Saturday, March 26, 1881_

"Do stop fussing. You're only making this more difficult."

"I am not…OUCH!" Erik sat on the edge of the bed, trying not to flinch. He had not intended to yell, but that last one hurt.

"Yes, you are," Christine said, refusing to back down.

He tried unsuccessfully to maintain the scowl on his face, but all he had to do was take one look at Christine and all thoughts of scowling were immediately lost. She was sitting in the chair opposite him, changing the dressings on his wrists, the perfect picture of domesticity. Her golden hair was tied back with a kerchief, and one of Mamma's aprons covered her dress. He looked down at his hands, watching as she worked. Most of the sores were scabbed over and healing well, but a couple of the deeper ones still had a tendency to crack open and seep, causing the bandages to stick.

Christine was being very careful about removing the bandages. She sat with a bowl of water in her lap, using a sponge to dampen the fabric that was stuck to the scabs. Once softened, she would gently pull the fabric away with a pair of tweezers. "You're making this worse than it has to be, you know," she scolded.

Now that she was finished undressing and cleaning his wrists, she set about unwrapping his broken and sprained fingers. At last, all the old dressings were removed.

Erik sighed in relief. "I am not," he said again, vainly trying to keep from grimacing as he tentatively tested his wrists and fingers.

Arching her eyebrows to let him know she didn't believe him for a minute, she set aside the bowl of water. Picking up the jar of comfrey salve that Mamma had made, she began applying it on the wounds. Then she picked up a fresh roll of linen, and rewrapped his wrists.

"How do your fingers feel?"

Most of the swelling had gone down and Erik was pleased to find that he was able to move most of them without too much difficulty, as long as he was careful. "The knuckles are still a bit sore," he said, testing the fingers on each hand.

"Here, let me rub some of the comfrey salve into them. It should make them feel better." Scooping out a small amount of the salve into her hand, she carefully rubbed it into his fingers.

She was right, Erik thought; it was soothing. He sat perfectly still, taking pleasure in the sensation of her fingers upon his.

"Perhaps I should rewrap those two," she said, referring to the broken ones.

"No," he said more brusquely than he meant when she startled him out of his reverie. "That won't be necessary."

"Are you angry at me for hurting you?" she asked.

Erik was troubled. He feared that he had offended Christine, then saw her smiling eyes through the pout on her face. "During my years living abroad, I learned many things about caring for wounds and injuries. One was that keeping injured fingers immobilized could lead to their healing incorrectly," he explained. "They could heal stiff and unbending. We should probably leave them unwrapped, at least for now, so that I can try to exercise them occasionally to keep them limber." He did not want to add that he felt embarrassed over being unable to care of himself and do simple things like change the dressing on his own wrists. But in spite of it all, he found he was actually enjoying the banter with Christine.

She in turn was amused by Erik's antics. She remembered Mamma once saying that most men made terrible patients, especially as they began feeling better. It looked as though Mamma's observations were correct and that even though he would heartily deny it, Erik belonged in that category. Getting up, she pushed the chair back against the wall and out of the way, and then put other materials away. Finished with her cleaning up, she rejoined Erik.

Sitting next to him on the bed, she looked over and studied his face. It was reassuring to see that the bruises at last were fading, and the cuts were improving. Without realizing what she was doing, she reached out and touched his face. Out of no where, tears welled up in her eyes. "I'm…I'm sorry, Erik," she said, almost in a whisper.

Erik could not understand what had just happened to her. Her mood had changed from playful banter to sadness for no clear reason. He thought she was apologizing for touching him, but surely, she knew by now that there was no need for that. Capturing her hand within his own, he smiled crookedly. "It's all right, Christine. I don't mind your touch."

"No. You don't understand." She shook her head and began sobbing violently. "This…this is all my fault," she cried. "If I hadn't befriended Raoul, if I had handled the situation differently, none of this would have happened. You…you might have been killed…"

Now it was becoming clear. Ever since he had been brought to Mamma's house, Christine had taken on the lion's share of the work when it had come to his care. She was the one who had done the comforting, the nursing, and the encouraging. God only knew what she had suffered during those two weeks he'd been locked up in the asylum. Through it all, she had forced herself to remain strong, but at last, the façade was cracking.

Now it was she who needed someone to be strong for her. He reached over, put his arms around her waist, and drew her nearer. He rubbed her back, allowing her head to rest against his shoulder as he held her close, feeling her slender body quake with sobs.

"None of this is your fault, Christine," he said as he reassured her, soothed her. "If not for you, I would in all likelihood be dead. You're a very brave, very courageous woman. Do not blame yourself for de Chagny's doings."

He was not sure if she was listening to him, but it did not matter. All that mattered was that he was there for her. He rocked her gently in his arms, allowing her to cry herself out. Having her in his arms, being her strength, was as therapeutic for him as her tears were for her. He slid the kerchief from her head. Thankful that his fingers were free from the bandages, he held her head with his free hand, relishing the silky feel of her hair against his skin. He inhaled the sweet, clean fragrance of the lavender scent she was wearing as he laid his check against the crown of her head.

The tears eventually dried up. "I…I'm sorry, Erik," she sniffed, embarrassed over her breakdown. Stray curls of honey-colored hair framed her face. With her nose red from crying, she looked like a lost, little waif.

"Nonsense. You've endured much these past weeks. You are certainly entitled to a little cry now and then."

She tilted her face so that she could look into his. She gazed at him, or rather, at his face. It came to her that in all these days they'd been at Mamma's house, she never once noticed that it was uncovered. This was as it should be. His face, whether part of it was disfigured or not, was the face of the man she loved – nothing more, nothing less. With her right hand, she caressed it, ran her fingers over the scars, and as she leaned closer her lips found his. "I love you so much, Erik."

With her head touching his shoulders, they sat quietly for several minutes. "Perhaps you should lie down, take a nap," Erik eventually said. "Truth is I'm feeling tired, too."

She looked over at her temporary bedding neatly bundled up by the fireplace, and then at the full-sized bed they were sitting on. "Erik, do you…would it trouble you if I were to lie down with you?"

Her question took him by surprise. "I…I wouldn't mind at all, Christine. But, what would Mamma say?"

The unhappiness she had felt earlier had dried up with the tears. Now, she could not suppress the giggle that wanted to break out, even when she covered her mouth with her hand to stifle it. "I didn't mean it _that_ way," she protested, though the look on her face suggested that the thought might have crossed her mind.

"It probably would not matter which way you meant it, my dear," Erik said as he shrugged, unable to keep a silly grin off his face, either. "I doubt I'd have the strength to do anything, even if you had meant it…_that _way." The mischievous look disappeared, replaced by one that was softer, more loving. "Although with you in my arms like this, I am awfully tempted…"

"I didn't mean to tempt you, Erik," she said teasingly, knowing that deep down, a part of her was trying to do just that.

"I'm not so sure, Mademoiselle," he sighed as the mischievous glimmer returned to his eyes. "But since it is obvious you simply meant that this bed," he patted the mattress they were sitting on, "is more comfortable than the floor, I have an idea that may work. Perhaps we could lie together, like spoons in a drawer. Nothing could be considered wrong with that."

"Like…spoons?" Christine asked, the little giggles refusing to go away.

"Yes, like this." Erik eased himself down on the bed, burying a grimace as he rolled over on the still-tender ribs. Lying on his side, he made himself comfortable. He looked at Christine and reached out to her, indicating that she should lie down on the bed, too, with her back to him. Following his lead, she snuggled as close as she could, then twisted her head and looked him over her shoulder.

"Are you sure this is not uncomfortable for you?"

"No, my little temptress. It is not uncomfortable in the least." He leaned forward and planted a kiss on her forehead, as her lips were out of reach just then. The press of her back upon his chest, the feel of her legs against his, the fragrance of her hair, all this was sheer paradise. He lay with his arm across her waist, treasuring the sensation as her hand covered his and held it close. He could feel each delightful swell of her body as she breathed in and out. "Now, close your eyes," he whispered into her ear. Soon she would be his wife, and such intimacy would be theirs whenever they wished it. The anticipation was almost palpable.

He had not been lying when he had told Christine he felt tired. He said nothing, only watched her as her body relaxed and she fell asleep. Now that she was sleeping, he allowed himself to close his eyes.

And so they lay together, like two spoons, and dreamed of paradise…

* * *

Comfrey (_Symphytum officinale_) is a plant that is valuable in the treatment of all types of skin, bone, and muscle injuries. It helps wounds to heal quickly, and is used for burns, blisters, broken bones, and inflammations. It can be prepared to be used both internally and externally, and has a soothing effect on any organ it comes in contact with. It is also used for respiratory and digestive system disorders. 


	27. Of Scorpions and Grasshoppers

This is a relatively short chapter, but I hope it will tide you over while I work on the next two. Have a great weekend, and once again -- thank you to every one of you who not only take the time to read this story, but who leave feedback. Your reviews are a treat for me to read.

HDKingsbury

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**Chapter 26  
Of Scorpions and Grasshoppers**

**-0-0-0-**

_Tuesday, March 29, 1881  
__Mamma's house_

"You're going to what?" Erik sputtered.

"I said, I thought I would take the train to Paris this weekend," Christine replied nonchalantly as she continued dusting the furniture in the parlor. Now that Erik no longer required constant care, she thought this would be a good time to make a quick trip back to the city and retrieve some of his personal belongings. She looked at him and shook her head as he sat in his chair fuming, his arms crossed over his chest, clad in the only clothes he presently had, namely his night shirt, robe and stockings. "You certainly can't go outside dressed like that. What will people say if they see you walking about with your bare legs sticking out from under your robe?"

"Who said I was going outside?" he replied indignantly, quickly pulling the afghan from the back of the chair and covering his lap – and his legs. "Besides, there's nothing wrong with my legs."

"I didn't say there was," she answered with a smirk, "only that others would talk at the sight of such indecent exposure. What's more, you yourself are the one who has been saying how much you would like to have some of your own garments to wear."

She was right and Erik knew it. For the past several days, he had been complaining bitterly about not only the lack of clothes, but that he wanted at least one of his other masks and hair pieces as well. It had been nearly a month since he had worn anything but bed clothes, and he was eager to get out of them. And it wasn't only clothes. He missed his music and the wonderful selection of books in his library. Christine made an excellent point, but he was damned if he was going to give easily.

"If anyone goes back to Paris, even for a short visit, it should be I."

Rolling her eyes towards the ceiling, she turned and faced him, her hands on her hips. "You're being stubborn as a mule, Erik duBois. You may be on the road to recovery, but there is no way you can make it up and down five flights of stairs in your present condition!"

"That's not the point. The point is that it is not safe for you to be seen there," he said begrudgingly. Why did she have to be so stubborn? Worse yet, why did she have to be so logical? Couldn't she see that he was only concerned for her safety?

"Would you feel better if Anatole accompanied me? He's expected tomorrow and I'm sure he would be more than willing to help."

"Do you mean to say you would take him to my house?" he gasped.

Christine was starting to worry when she saw his face turn several shades of crimson, and she was wondering if she should be concerned over the possibility of his suffering from an apoplectic stroke. "Need I remind you that not only did Anatole help get you out of that hell-hole, but also that if he had wanted to, he could have reported your whereabouts to the authorities many times these past weeks?"

Erik could not dispute the facts, but his mind was wandering down the wrong path again. He worried about Anatole escorting Christine. After all, the other man was suave, handsome… Immediately he forced himself to stop thinking along those lines. He and Christine were embarking on a journey of discovery. Isn't that what she had said? A journey founded upon love…and trust.

Christine saw the puzzled look on Erik's face and knew he was struggling with his thoughts. She came over and knelt down next to him, looping her arm through his, coaxing him to cheer up. "I trusted Anatole with your life, Erik. I believe it is time for you to trust him as well."

Trust. Easier for her to ask it of him than it was for him to give. It was something with which he had so little experience. But Christine was right. Though he was rapidly improving, he was in no state to make the trip. On the other hand, there was no way he would allow Christine to go by herself because there was no way of knowing if (or when) de Chagny might show up. And he certainly would not permit Garron into his house alone. Therefore, the only thing left was trust. He would have to trust Christine and Garron – together. With no other recourse available, he capitulated. "I still don't like it," he mumbled, but accepted there was no turning back once the decision had been made. "As long as you're going, there are a few other things I would like you to bring back."

Leaning closer, she gave him a quick hug, being careful not to press too tightly against his cracked ribs. "Does this mean you're giving me permission to go?"

Erik snorted. "Your question is quite amusing, Christine. I highly doubt you would ever wait upon my permission for anything, but would charge headlong into whatever it is you wanted to do."

She replied by squeezing his arm affectionately. "Very well, then, since I have your permission, what is it that you want me to bring back?"

"I suspect we may need some funds. I'm sure we are accruing quite a few expenses even if Monsieur d'Aubert has graciously declined payment for his services. Our presence here at your foster mother's house must be adding to her household expenditures – three mouths to feed instead of one – and though I appreciate everyone's generosity, it is not as if I am unable to repay them."

"Erik, they know you are a man of means. They are not helping you out of pity nor out of charity. They are helping you because you are a human being, a person who was in need of help."

"I…I know," was all he could think to say. It was hard for Erik to put into words what was going through his mind these days. He had never been in such a situation as this, where people he did not even know had risked so much for him. The last thing he wanted to do was repay their efforts by being a financial burden to them; he wanted to reciprocate their kindheartedness, their thoughtfulness, their generosity. And though all seemed safe for the moment, he could not shake the feeling that some unpleasantness might still be lurking down the road. He seriously doubted that de Chagny and Fournier would take too kindly to his having been "discharged" from the sanitarium. Instead of saying any of this and unnecessarily upsetting her though, he only told Christine, "I would still feel more comfortable if we had ready access to funds, in the event of an emergency."

Christine knew Erik well enough by now to recognize that he had already made up his mind and that there would be no further discussion on the subject, at least not now. It would be better to simply accept Erik's wish to do something kind for these people who had shown him kindness. "What would you like me to bring back from your house?"

Relieved that she was not going to press the matter, he began to explain. "In the parlor, atop either side of the mantle are two figures, both very cleverly imitated in Japanese bronze. The figure on the right is that of a scorpion, and on the left, a grasshopper. 3 They are both attached to the mantle, but both turn. If you turn the scorpion all the way to the right, a picture that serves as a camouflage will slide open and reveal a hidden storage place. Inside is a strongbox that contains money as well as some other objects of value."

Christine tried to recall how the mantle over the fireplace looked, but had never paid much attention to the figures to which he was referring. "And the grasshopper?" she asked. "Does that turn as well? What will happen if I turn the grasshopper?"

He smiled enigmatically. "A fuse will be ignited that will detonate a number of barrels of gunpowder I keep stored in one of the other cellars and blow the opera house and a quarter of Paris to smithereens."

She frowned at him. "You keep gunpowder down there?"

"Not in the house. In one of the neighboring cellars," he said with a deadpan face as Christine glared at him. "Actually, if you turn the grasshopper to the right, you will reveal another, smaller hiding place where I keep the key to the strongbox. Use the key to open the strongbox and bring its contents here."

"How did you ever come up with scorpions and grasshoppers?"

"Around the time I was installing those secret compartments, I had been reading some treatises on ancient Egyptian hieroglyphics. Both the scorpion and the grasshopper were symbols used in the writings of the ancients, and both were often considered instruments of divine vengeance and retribution. What better guardians could I have for my secret hideaways than these two, even if they were only in effigy? Besides, they were an interesting alternative to some of the more ordinary and commonplace design motifs."5

"What about the barrels of gunpowder?"

"We'll leave those for another day."

She sighed. "If I didn't know you any better, I'd be worried that you were telling the truth about having gunpowder down in the cellars."

A devilish smirk on his face was his only reply.

-0-0-0-

* * *

Currency conversion for French francs in 1880s: ₣20,000 (obsolete) $3897.69 (US). This is in today's parlance. Regardless as to what this would have been equal to in 1881, one thing is certain – the Phantom was commanding a hefty price for his cooperation!

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I needed a reason for Erik to use a scorpion and a grasshopper as the guardians of his secret hiding places, and decided that they must have been symbolic of something! Since I also have an interest in Ancient Egyptian culture and history, I gave that same interest to Erik as well. The information presented here comes from a website called "Sacred Insects." To find the URL, just type in SACRED INSECTS in your search engine. I would post the link here, but this site doesn't support links.

GRASSHOPPER

The particular grasshopper species used as a motif by the ancient Egyptians was probably the locust, either the desert locust (_Schistocera gregaria_) or the migratory locust (_Schistocerca migratoria_), both of which were probably common sights in the rich agricultural land bordering the Nile. Sudden plagues of these insects in ancient times no doubt caused much destruction of grain and other food crops, just as they do today. Most of the locust (or grasshopper) amulets and seals so far discovered are similar to those depicting scarab beetles, with a flat base usually inscribed and pierced through for threading on string or wire so that they could be worn. Possibly these amulets were thought to ward-off locust plagues. Locusts (or grasshoppers) were also depicted in tomb reliefs and paintings, as elements of wildlife along the Nile. The locust or grasshopper hieroglyph quite simply refers to the insect itself, although in certain contexts it appears to mean 'great numbers of individuals', for example on a wall in the temple at Medinet Habu near modern-day Luxor there is an inscription, which reads: 'battalions will come like the locusts'. 

**SCORPION. **

Although not an insect, this arachnid deserves mention because, like the serpent, it became the object of many cults and spells from the earliest times in Egyptian history, doubtless due to the fear of its sting. Two types of scorpions are found in Egypt: the paler, more poisonous members of the family Buthridae and the darker, usually less harmful members of the family Scorpionidae. The scorpion ideogram, one of the earliest known hieroglyphic signs, was depicted on wooden and ivory labels found in the late-Pre-dynastic and Early Dynastic royal cemetery at Abydos and also among the cache of cult equipment in the Early Dynastic temple at Hierakonpolis.

The goddess _Serket_ was the principal divine personification of the scorpion and was usually depicted with a scorpion perched on her head (see picture above). Her name (also rendered as _Serqit_, _Serquit_, _Selket_ or _Selkis_) is an abbreviation of the phrase _Serket-hetyt_ (or _Serqit-hetu_) meaning 'she who causes the throat to breathe'. She was one of the four protector goddesses of coffins and conopic jars, together with _Isis_, _Neith_ and _Nephthys_ - the four godesses were often represented on canopic chests. _Isis_ was also said to have been protected from her enemies by seven scorpions. Another, less well-known deity, the god _Shed_ (also described as 'the saviour'), was linked with the scorpion and thought to give protection against its sting.

One of the pre-dynastic pharaoh kings of Upper Egypt (_c._3150 BC) has been given the name _Scorpion_ (also named _Zekhen_ in some lists). He was identified from a ceremonial mace-head found at Hierakonpolis (modern-day Kom el-Ahmar, about 80 km south of Luxor) which depicts a king wearing the white crown of Upper Egypt with the glyph of a scorpion next to his face. He appears to have been a warrior-king involved in the early struggles to unite Upper and Lower Egypt. From the Late Period (_c._750 BC) onwards, images of scorpions were also depicted on so called _cippi_, which were types of amulets or stele used to ward off, and provide healing powers against, scorpion stings and snake bites. The scorpion hieroglyph was symbolic of the scorpion itself, and of the goddess _Serket_ and the pre-dynastic king _Scorpion_. It was also used in hieroglyphic texts, for example, as a determinative to the word _serk_ - meaning 'scorpion' and also 'to breathe' or 'to sniff the wind.'


	28. Paris after Midnight

Note: Time for another great big, gigantic cyber-hug to ML for her excellent ideas when it came to the hows and whys of the construction of Erik's house. It's great to have someone like her helping you on a story. Her input continues to be invaluable.

The next few chapters may not be posted quite as quickly as those in the past. I'm working on the next two and hope to have something to post by the weekend. Keep your fingers crossed for me!

HDKingsbury

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**Chapter 27  
Paris after Midnight**

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_Thursday  
March 31, 1881_

"The first time you told me about Erik," Anatole said to Christine, "I assumed that he lived alone in some quiet, secluded neighborhood. I never would have guessed that he actually lived _in_ the opera house."1 Earlier he had wondered why they would need a lantern if they were going to someone's house, and why they were going there so late at night. Now he knew.

It had been half-past midnight when they arrived at the _Palais Garnier_ and parked the rented brougham in the rear. Entering the building via Erik's secret door, they were now making their way down to the lowest level under the building. Christine was leading the way, the lantern she had brought in one hand and an empty tapestry bag in the other. Anatole followed close behind, bringing with him a portmanteau large enough to hold several changes of clothing and other personal effects.

"Not _in_, but _under_," Christine was explaining. Even though it was she who had convinced Erik that he could trust Anatole with the knowledge of where his house was located, she still felt ill at ease about actually bringing him here.

_I trusted Anatole with Erik's life_, she reminded herself. _I can trust him with Erik's property._

Anatole was practically bubbling with excitement. "It's just that…I never knew anything like this existed! It's like entering a whole new world down here. I am certainly glad you didn't take me up on my offer up there in the hallway. I would have hated to miss all this!"

"You mean your offer to stay above? That really wouldn't have been practical. What if Raoul or one of his henchmen had discovered this place and were waiting for us? You would be of little help if you were above ground and I below."

"I was merely thinking of Erik's privacy," he said, patting his pocket to reassure himself that the pistol he'd brought – just in case – was still there. So far, he was relieved that they had found no signs whatsoever of any intruders, but one could not be too careful these days. "After all," he added, "a man's home is supposed to be his castle." In spite of the strangeness of where they were going, and the circumstances that propelled them to do so, Anatole could not keep the excitement out of his voice.

And his enthusiasm was contagious. Christine caught her friend's sense of amazement and wanted to laugh with him in his boyish excitement. "Yes, I imagine it is quite different from what you were expecting. I'm so accustomed to coming here that I sometimes forget how I felt the first time Erik brought me down here. I used to think of this as an enchanted world, when in fact, it's really quite an ordinary place – except that it's below ground."

"How long have you known about this?"

"Almost two years…"

Dampness seeped through the walls the lower they came. Soon they came upon the subterranean lake, its surface as smooth and black as obsidian. The lantern light winked back at them as it was reflected back at them.

"I'd always heard stories that there was a reservoir of some sort down here," Anatole said, "but never thought I'd ever really make it down here to see it."

Now that they had made it to the fifth level, Christine was showing Anatole the path that would take them around the water and to Erik's house. When they arrived, Anatole was amazed at how little house by the lake was so creatively concealed by the masonry work. Once they were inside, Christine turned up the gas lights. The first thought that struck her was that she had put her nervous energy to good use that night Erik had disappeared, having whiled away the hours cleaning and putting away food and other perishables. Otherwise, they would have been greeted by a less than pleasant odor, and an even more unpleasant mess. Knowing that he was curious about Erik's secret residence, she gave Anatole a quick tour.

"How did Erik come to live down here?" he asked.

"He was one of the architects who worked on this building," she explained, spreading her arms to indicate the entire opera house.

"I don't recall ever hearing his name mentioned in connection with the construction of the _Palais Garnier, _but then again, I never pay much attention to those who build the stages I sing on."

"That's all right. No one is supposed to have heard of Erik duBois. He was Monsieur Garnier's silent partner. One of the problems Garnier encountered during the construction of this edifice was that the ground was extremely marshy, and the high water table created the underground lake we passed. It has a name, you know. It's called Lake Averne, although I doubt you will find it on any maps of Paris. All this water created a major problem – no work could be done on the foundation until the ground was stabilized. It was Erik who solved this problem. Eight months of continuous pumping was necessary before the foundation could be laid. Once that dilemma was solved, a means was required to control and maintain the water level. For that, Erik designed an underground reservoir that utilizes a series of hydraulic pumps.

"As for how he came to have a house down here, that's easy enough to answer. This house started out as his temporary lodging during the opera's construction. Throughout the work on project and during its interruptions, he preferred to live on site. Eventually, what started out as a temporary accommodation eventually became his permanent home."

"Fascinating," was all Anatole could think to say. "You are quite an adept pupil, to remember all of this information."

"Not all our time together has been spent on music," she laughed. "He won't admit it, but Erik is quite proud of his architectural accomplishments. Though he speaks very little about his past, he has occasionally mentioned other assignments he worked on. Most, however, are located outside of France."

Knowing as he now did something of Erik's background, Anatole could easily understand how this underground retreat would appeal to him. He wandered through the rooms, still astounded at their very existence. "So these lodgings were part of his compensation for his work."

"Yes." Christine was relieved that Anatole was able to comprehend what she was telling him without the prejudices others might have displayed. "It started out as a simple place to sleep when he was too exhausted to stumble home at night – a room with a cot, a chest of drawers to hold a change of clothes, and a small portable stove. Over time, it expanded into an actual residence with several rooms. The various pieces of furniture were brought down here long before the opera house was finished, which allowed the fact of its existence to be covered up by the commotion of the construction. As you can see, it has become somewhat posh."

"Well, what do you know? So, this is how all those stories of hauntings and opera ghosts got started."

"Admittedly, it is much more exciting to imagine Erik stowing away down here for the sole purpose of frightening ballet dancers and singers, but the simple truth is that he earned this house. It was part of his payment, his compensation as you called it. Of course, no records were ever kept of any of this. Garnier understood and respected Erik's need for secrecy. And now, you are only the fourth person to know of this place."

Anatole frowned. "Fourth?"

"You, me, Erik and Monsieur Garnier."

She next showed him to the bedroom, furnished in the Louis Philippe style with its strong, simple lines.9 Anatole set the portmanteau on the bed and went to the wardrobe to look over its contents, deciding which items Erik would need most, while Christine went to the double chest in which she had been told she would find other masks and hairpieces.

Pulling open the bottom drawer, she saw that there were three additional masks, all carefully wrapped and neatly stored. In the next drawer up, she found the wigs and hairpieces Erik had told her he had, again put away in a tidy and orderly fashion. Glancing at her tapestry bag, she knew there would not be room for all of them, so she selected one mask and one hairpiece. Next, she went over to the six-drawer dresser. On top were a couple of lacquer trinket boxes as well as a man's valet, inside of which were cuff links and other accessories.

"We should probably bring some of these along as well, don't you think?" she asked, pointing to the valet.

"Perhaps just a few of these," he said, picking out only those items he deemed necessary. "If there are some other items he needs that I'm not seeing here, we can always purchase them elsewhere."

Christine agreed. Finding some linen handkerchiefs in another drawer, she took a few out and used them to wrap the cuff links and other objects Anatole had selected, and placed them in her tapestry bag as well.

Over in the wardrobe, Anatole found a traveling case that included a selection of basic toiletries and grooming articles. "There is nothing like a man's favorite cologne to make him feel good about himself," he said to Christine.

"And how do you know which of these is his favorite?" Christine asked, noticing that there were several bottles of scent on top of the dresser.

"Elementary, my dear Christine. His favorite would be the one that has been used the most," he said, pointing to the one bottle less full than the others. He unstopped the bottle and handed it to her to sniff. "Would you not agree?"

She inhaled the fragrance with its clean lavender and fern base scent, with hints of lilac, lime, and citrus musk. Other men seemed to enjoy the heavier, spicier, muskier fragrances, but Christine knew that Erik preferred this lighter cologne that was imported from England. "Yes," she agreed, smiling, "this is his favorite. I would recognize the scent anywhere."

Finished in the bedroom, they made their way to the parlor. Again, Anatole was impressed, not only with the elegant simplicity of the furnishings, but by the collection of books that filled an entire wall.

"We obviously can't take all of them with us," he said, quickly calculating that there had to be a couple hundred volumes at least.

"Not unless you brought along a pulley and a couple of mules to carry them all back up to the top."

He walked closer to get a better look at the titles of the books. They covered a wide assortment of subjects – architecture, music, mathematics including algebra, geometry and calculus, along with a mixture of other sciences. Most were in French, but there were also some in English, French, German, Italian, and Russian. The scientific works made him think of his brother, Charles, and Anatole could not help but feel that if Charles had lived and met Erik, the two might have been great friends.

Leaving the scientific and technical volumes, he found the works of ancient masters such as Homer and Sophocles in the original Greek, and Latin works by Virgil, Ovid, and a few other names Anatole did not recognize. There were also a few in languages he was not familiar with, but suspected that were from those years when Christine had said he traveled abroad. Lighter works also had their place on these bookshelves; novels by Honoré de Balzac, Jules Verne, Victor Hugo, and Alexandre Dumas _père__ et fils._ It was obvious that Erik was a voracious reader, not limiting himself to one genre.

"Pick a couple, and hope that Erik agrees with our choice," Christine said to him.

Anatole perused the titles, deciding against anything too technical for a man who was convalescing. So he started looking through the novels. Applying the same method he had used with the colognes, he looked to see which books might have seen more use than the others. Sure enough, two Verne novels stood out – _Twenty-Thousand Leagues under the Sea_ and _Mysterious Island_. Browsing through the latter, Anatole noticed that it automatically opened to a page that must have been read many times. One passage in particular caught his eye with its ink slightly smudged as though someone had run a finger over it many, many times:

_Where, then, did he seek that liberty denied him upon the inhabited earth? Under the waves, in the depths of the ocean, where none could follow._

It looked as though Erik had found a kindred spirit in the mysterious Captain Nemo.

Having made his selection, Anatole stepped over towards the piano. On top were two bundles of paper. The first was a partial ream of staff paper, its blank pages waiting for a composer to fill them with notes. The other was what appeared to be a work in progress. Picking up the top page, he saw a title – _Don Juan Triumphant_. From the thickness of the number of pages, it appeared to be a major work.

"Christine, did you not tell me that Erik is a composer as well?" She nodded in the affirmative as he held up the score for her to see. "Then I think we should take these with us as well," he said.

"Yes, it is his _magnum opus_. He tells me he has worked on his great symphony for almost twenty years. Once, shortly after we began seeing each other, I saw the music sitting there on the piano just as you did. Being young and curious, I asked him to play some of his _Don Juan Triumphant _for me. I can still remember his reply. 'You must never ask me that,' he said in a gloomy voice. 'I will play you Mozart, if you like, which will only make you weep; but my _Don Juan_, Christine, burns; and yet he is not struck by fire from Heaven.'" She chuckled. "He can be overly dramatic sometimes. He believed that I was too young, too innocent to understand his music.

"One day I finally persuaded him to play a selection for me. He was right; his music burned itself into my very soul. It seemed to me at first to be one long, awful, magnificent sob. The music showed me martyrdom in every detail; it led me into every part of the abyss – the abyss in which he had been living all those years before we met. It showed me Erik beating his poor unfortunate head against the funereal walls of that hell and taking refuge there from a world that had treated him so cruely.

"I remember watching him as he played, overwhelmed by the swelling of those thunderous chords where Sorrow had been deified. And then, when all seemed lost, the notes rose from the abyss, whirling as if they were birds in flight. The music seemed to mount upward toward heaven as the eagle rises to the sun. Such a triumphal symphony seemed to set the world ablaze. I understood the work at last; that Ugliness, lifted on the winds of Love, had dared to look into the face of Beauty. I was intoxicated by it."

Anatole had only to see the rapt expression on Christine's face to know that she was hearing the music once again. He looked down at the score in his hands. Even a cursory glance told him that this was a masterpiece that deserved a place alongside the works of such giants as Beethoven and Berlioz. "I hope that someday Erik will have this glorious work published and performed, so that the world can hear his genius."

"I should like that, too."

"Should we take these, then?"

"Yes. I think that even if he does not work on it, Erik would appreciate having his music with him."

At last, their other tasks accomplished, it was time to get the strongbox. Christine went over to the mantel. She had never noticed the carvings before, but there they were just as Erik had described them – a scorpion and a grasshopper. Following Erik's instructions, she placed her hand on the scorpion and turned it all the way to the right until it stopped. She heard a sliding sound, and noticed that what she had taken to be a painting hanging on the wall to her left was actually the concealed door to the strongbox's hiding place.

_Leave it to Erik_ _to create secret panels and hideaways in a house already hidden deep beneath the streets of Paris_, she thought.

Reaching inside, she pulled out a hand-wrought metal box with a skeleton-key lock. It wasn't terribly large, being approximately eighteen centimeters wide, eight centimeters tall and fifteen centimeters deep – large enough for the bank notes and other valuables Erik said it contained.

She turned the scorpion back to the left, closing the panel, and walked over to the grasshopper. When she turned it to the right, a small door, concealed to look like the base the figure was resting upon, popped open and revealed the skeleton key that would unlock the strongbox. Opening it, she withdrew several bundles of bank notes. From their thickness, she figured there had to be at least several thousand francs. There were also several black velvet drawstring bags. Opening one, she took a quick look and saw what appeared to be an assortment of precious gems and pieces of jewelry. Pulling the drawstrings closed again, she placed the bank notes and the velvet bags inside the tapestry bag, then put the strongbox and the key back where she found them.

Having finished what they had come to do, Anatole and Christine closed up Erik's house and returned above ground and to their hotel.

Before retiring to their respective rooms for the night, she turned to Anatole. "Thank you for your help. I don't know what I would have done without you."

"It was my pleasure," he said, his mind filled with fantastical images.

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**Notes, Historical and Otherwise:**

A **brougham** was a four-wheeled light carriage pulled by a single horse of the1800s. It was invented by Henry Brougham, 1st Baron Brougham and Vaux, Lord Chancellor of Great Britain. It had a low body with a box seat in front for the driver. In back was seating for two or four with two doors.

A **portmanteau** (from 16th century French, plural _portmanteaux_) is a large traveling case made of leather. Originally designed to carry (_porter_) your coats (_mantles_), the portmanteau stands on end, so that the coats are hung vertically, and opens up like a book to make a pair of mini-closets joined by hinges. The Louis-Philippe style was in reaction to the light tones of Charles X style, and uses darker colors. The lines were strong and simple, and the chairs were comfortable. Industrialization was beginning. Natural wood was used in solid or veneered form.

The scent of Erik's favorite cologne is a classic Victorian men's scent. No, I did not make it up.

The description of Erik's _Don Juan Triumphant_ is taken primarily from _The Essential Phantom of the Opera_, by Leroux and edited/translated by Leonard Wolf, pages 182-183 (soft cover edition). One thing I discovered when going back to all my translations of POTO (and I have three of them) is that nowhere is _Don Juan Triumphant_ specifically referred to as an opera. On the contrary, in all three versions, Christine calls it a symphony. I have come to imagine _DJT_ as a great choral symphony such as Beethoven or Berlioz might have written. When writing this section, I imagined some of Erik's work sounding like Berlioz's great _Requiem_, especially the _Tuba Mirum_.


	29. Conversations with Mamma

**Chapter 28  
Conversations with Mamma**

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_Friday April 1, 1881  
__Mamma's House _

Erik woke to the distant crying of gulls as they circled the harbor at Perros-Guirec, waiting for the fishing boats to return. It was still taking him some getting used to, this notion of waking up to the sound of birds after living for so many years beneath the opera house, where the only sounds usually heard were the occasional muffled notes of the orchestra as they filtered down to the fifth level. Easing himself out of bed, he carefully stretched, then grabbed his robe from the back of the chair where he had left it the night before.

Tying the robe around his middle, Erik headed out of his room and towards the washroom, with its pedestal sink and toilet, at the end of the hall, sighing once again at his disappointment over there not being a bathtub. What he wouldn't do for nice hot bath. What he wouldn't give for hot water with which to wash and shave, even. But that would require disturbing Mamma, having her heat a kettle of water and bring it upstairs, and his presence was already creating additional work for the woman. No, he would make do with cold water. As he made his way into the washroom, he considered how much of a job it would be to install a boiler.

Grabbing a clean towel and cloth from the linen press, he washed up as best he could, the task made cumbersome by several fingers still sore and bandaged. It was even more of a challenge to shave. (Thank goodness Anatole had picked up a shaving mug and brush, a cake of soap, and a razor on one of his previous shopping trips into Perros!) Erik nicked himself more than once, but managed to get the job done. Inspecting his face in the mirror – something he only did when shaving – he considered growing one massive "muttonchop" sideburn on the good side of his face and to hell with the rest, at least until his hands were healed and he could hold onto a razor and not slit his own throat.

Returning to his room, he glanced over at the clock on the dresser – it showed the time to be almost 10:30. A little chuckle came out when he realized how late the hour was.

_Hmm, I guess I overslept…again._

Now that he was no longer confined to his bed, Erik had been trying to conform to the schedule kept in this house. Both Mamma and Christine were early risers, but years of keeping his own irregular hours made doing the same hard for him to do. Besides, it was not as if he had an agenda that needed to be met.

Going over to the window, Erik drew back the curtains, filling the room with sunshine flooding in through the east-facing window. The apple tree growing in front of the house, its branches filled with blossoms, caught his eye. Opening the window, he inhaled the fresh air with its faint tang of the nearby sea. He reached out and touched the branches, remembering the time that Christine had told how she used to pick apples from this very tree.

_I've spent too many years living in darkness. This is what I want to see now – light and brightness. I want to be with Christine in the light. I want to see her hair shine in the glow of the sun. I want to see the play of light and shadows across her features. I want to feel the sun's warmth as it pours through the window. _

He closed the window and noticed a new aroma, this one coming from the kitchen downstairs. Tired of looking at these same four walls, Erik decided to head downstairs. The only other times he had been down there were that first day he'd gotten out of bed, and the past Monday when Christine had sprung her idea about the trip to Paris.

Though recovering rapidly from his ordeal, he still had not regained all his strength and needed to take his time. Walking across the room or down the hall had not been very difficult, but stairs were another matter. Continuing to use a cane for support, he took hold of the handle in the less injured of his hands and gingerly tested the first couple of steps. Not experiencing any great discomfort, he took the next few more forcefully, his confidence in his return to health improving with each step. The steps were still a bit tricky to navigate, but as long as he took his time, he made it to the bottom without any great difficulty.

By the time he reached the bottom step, he was slightly out of breath, but satisfied with his progress nonetheless. It felt good to be out of bed. Now, all he needed was for Christine to return from Paris this afternoon bringing his clothes…and his mask. He was working hard at trying to conquer this overpowering need to hide his disfigurement.

Mamma Valérius had made it clear from the start that there was no need for him to do so while in her house, but it would take more than a few days to counteract what had been ingrained over a lifetime. Even when no one was around, Erik often found himself instinctively placing his hand over the damaged side of his face. He chided himself for such foolish behavior, reminding himself that there were now other people besides Christine who were accepting him for himself and not judging him because of a piece of leather and some misshapen flesh.

He looked around at the first floor of the house and noticed he was in the main hall, with other rooms running off of it on either side. To his left was the door to the kitchen, and to his right, the parlor where he had joined Christine and Anatole earlier in the week.

He heard Mamma Valérius bustling about in the kitchen. From the occasional clatter of pans and Mamma's humming to herself, he assumed she was preparing the day's meal. Unfamiliar with the rituals females observed in the kitchen, Erik decided it might be best if he stayed out of her way. Instead, he decided to head for the parlor and take a closer look. True, he'd been in this room twice before, but he had not paid attention to his surroundings earlier.

In one corner of the room was an upright piano that had belonged to the late Prof. Gustav Valérius. Erik remembered Christine telling him this was the same piano the professor used when he taught voice back in Stockholm. For Erik, the lure of music was great. He walked over to the piano and spent several seconds simply staring at it, imagining what it would feel like to play again. Unable to resist the pull any longer, he sat down on the bench, lifted the cover and placed his fingers on the keyboard. The outside of the piano had been well cared for, but as for the interior? The real test would be in the playing.

Gently, he pressed down on the keys, his musician's ear cringing when he heard the piano had fallen out of pitch. Maybe later, he thought, when he was better, he could fix this for Mamma. He was starting to make a mental list of things he could do for the woman – first, a hot water boiler, second, tune the piano. These would be such small gifts to repay the woman's many kindnesses.

Out of tune or not, Erik gave in to the urge to play and tried a simple melody. It did not matter that many of the notes fell flat; his heart soared at their sounds. He closed his eyes, ignoring the ache in his fingers as he continued playing. The tune came to an end, and he wanted to try something more complex, but knew that he should not push himself too much yet. Reluctantly, he closed the piano, hoping that the day would soon come when he could play some Schumann or Liszt for Christine and Mamma.

He looked around and saw that the rest of the room was filled with the usual furnishings found in a modest household. There was a fireplace, a sofa with two bolster cushions, upholstered in a pink-and-green cotton print and accented with several needlepoint pillows, a pair of matching upholstered arm chairs, a two-door bookcase cabinet and a narrow glass-fronted curio cabinet filled with the usual bric-a-brac and souvenirs, a large circular tilt-top table in one corner and a smaller side table by the sofa, both covered with hand-crocheted lace tablecloths and vases filled with spring-blooming flowers. Sitting on a pedestal in front of the window was a large fern, and on the floor was a cream-colored Aubusson rug.

Glancing up at the pastel-papered walls, Erik saw that one wall was covered with numerous portraits and photographs of people and family. He walked closer. Some bore names he recognized from the music world, no doubt acquaintances and colleagues of the late professor's. Others were labeled with Scandinavian names; these were probably family members and long-time friends. Hanging above the fireplace was the centerpiece of this collection, a large portrait of Prof. Valérius draped in black bunting. Mamma, it seemed, still mourned his loss.

Going over to the bookcase, Erik decided to see what titles Mamma had in her house, hoping to find a book with which to fill his idle hours. One book in particular caught his attention, and he pulled out Victor Hugo's novel on the French Revolution, _Ninety-Three_. Taking it with him, he settled into one of the chairs and began browsing through its pages.

_"At the same time that it threw off revolution, this Assembly produced civilization. Furnace, but forge too. In this caldron, where terror bubbled, progress fermented. Out of this chaos of shadow, this tumultuous flight of clouds, spread immense rays of light parallel to the eternal laws,—rays that have remained on the horizon, visible forever in the heaven of the peoples, and which are, one, Justice; another, Tolerance; another, Goodness; another, Right; another, Truth; another, Love." _

His eyes fixed upon those words: justice, tolerance, goodness, right, truth and love. These were what he had been seeking all his life. Could it be that, with the help of these good people – Mamma Valérius, Anatole Garron, Reynard d'Aubert, and Christine Daaé – he might at long last know firsthand what had long been only a dream?

Leafing absentmindedly through the book, he came across some pamphlets nestled between the pages. They attracted his attention far more than the book itself – they were Marxist tracts. Christine, it seemed, had been quite serious that evening they had gone Christmas shopping when she had spoken of Mamma being a "free thinker." Smiling to himself, he carefully replaced the pamphlets and sat back, returning to Hugo once more.

About two chapters into the book, and aroma emanating from the kitchen demanded his attention. Mamma was baking cookies. Erik could not remember ever smelling anything as delicious as what he smelled coming out of the oven. He made up his mind to set the book aside and join Mamma in the kitchen.

_"God dag!"_ she said, greeting him cheerfully. "I did not realize you were up. You should make more noise instead of sneaking around like a cat." He might have thought she was chastising him had it not been for the glint of humor in her eyes. "Here. Sit. Sit. I'll get you some breakfast," she continued, pulling out a chair from the table for him.

Erik tried to discourage her from going out of her way. "Please, that is not necessary. I usually don't eat breakfast."

"Nonsense." She eyed him up and down, not pleased with what she saw. "Look at how thin you are. You need to put some flesh back on those bones of yours. Now then, what would you like? Pancakes? An omelet? Something else?"

"I…I really do not wish to put you to any trouble. Perhaps a cup of coffee and some toast?"

_"Ja_, I have some coffee," she said. She went and got the pot off the stove, pouring a cup for Erik.  
"You want cream? Sugar?"

"No, black. Thank you." He looked around the kitchen, its cast-iron cook stove and oven dominating the room. On the counter to his left, cooling on a rack, were several dozen cookies.

If Mamma knew one thing, it was that the old saying was true about the quickest way to a man's heart was through his stomach. She could tell that Erik was not quite at ease, and smiled when she saw him eye the cookies. "They're _sablés nantais_, almond butter cookies. You would like one of them rather than the toast? They're fresh from the oven, still warm and soft and chewy." She went over to the counter and handed him one to try.

Erik bit into it, savoring each sensation on his taste buds. It was like the ambrosia of the gods. "Might I have another?"

Mamma laughed. "You may have as many as you like." Getting a plate from the cupboard, she filled it with cookies and set it on the table. Pouring herself a cup of coffee, she took the seat across from him. "They're good, are they not?"

There was something about the situation – Mamma Valérius at the kitchen table, fresh-baked cookies cooling on the counter, a pot of coffee on the stove – that Erik found relaxing. Perhaps it was simply that this was what he had always wished his own home had been like when he was growing up. It was not too hard to sit here and imagine his own mother sitting across from him. Even after all these years, it hurt to think that had it not been for his father, his mother might have loved him. But such thoughts were a waste of time and energy, and he shoved them aside; there was no way to change the past.

The two of them sat quietly for several minutes, eating the cookies and drinking their coffee. Erik remembered Christine telling him how she always wrote to Mamma, told her everything that was going on in her life, even about Erik. He was curious as to what it was she included about him in those letters to her foster mother. "I…I was wondering…" He stopped, not sure how to proceed, .

Mamma smiled. It was as if she knew he suddenly felt tongue-tied. "_Ja?_ You were wondering…" she encouraged him to continue.

Erik felt his body tense. He should not have brought up this topic. The dear lady would think he was being overly inquisitive, but it was obvious that she was waiting for him to continue. "Christine told me that she writes to you all the time when she's in Paris. That she told you all about me. I was wondering…what did she say?"

"Only that your life has not been easy, that you grew up under adverse circumstances."

"Adverse circumstances. I…I suppose that's as good a way to put it as any."

"Is there something you would like to tell me? Something you want to talk about?"

"Only…oh, it's nothing. I was only thinking…." He stopped as an overwhelming sense of sadness washed over him. "I was thinking that this is how I always dreamt a home should be like, filled with love and affection."

"Yours was not?"

Erik shook his head.

"Was there a problem at home?" There was concern in Mamma's voice.

"My father…" Oh, this was going from bad to worse. He tried to shrug off the feeling that he was making a first-rate fool of himself, but there was no turning back now. "He was…difficult at times."

"Ah," Mamma said. "I've heard that phrase used before. Was he intemperate? Abusive to you, your mother? No," she said, holding up her hands and shaking her head, "please do not answer. It was rude of me to ask. I'm only a nosy old woman…"

The woman's frank, down-to-earth manner eased the strain that had been building in Erik. He let out a melancholy chuckle. "You are many things, Anna Valérius, but 'only a nosy old woman' does not seem to be one of them. Everything you said is true. Yes, my father was 'intemperate' in his drinking. That often led to violent behavior. Many times, he told me I was an embarrassment to him. But…but how did you know? Did Christine tell you?"

"No. It was simply an educated guess based on what you said to me just now, about dreaming of a home filled with love."

Throughout their conversation, Erik had been turning his face without realizing it, unconsciously trying to hide his disfigurement. Without meaning to offend the kind woman who had never once indicated that she was upset by his face, he blurted out, "I regret that you must tolerate my appearance. Christine is bringing a mask from Paris, and I will wear it whenever I am out of my room. You won't need to see me…like this…" He stopped, not knowing what had gotten into him, fearing that perhaps it had been the memories of his father that caused him to unintentionally insult his hostess.

Mamma frowned. She reached across the table and took Erik's hands into her own, the way a mother would hold a child's hands, even an adult child. "What troubles me, young man, is that you feel the need to say this to me. What matters to me is what's up here," she said, pointing to her head, "and what's in here," pointing to her heart. "The rest is superficial."

Erik was ashamed of himself. He had come into this room feeling full of confidence, but that confidence was still fragile. He lowered his head, wanting nothing more than to leave the kitchen and return to his room. But Mamma was not one to let him to wallow in self-pity.

"You have been taught to think of yourself in this manner, to believe yourself to be undeserving of love and kindness. You perceive yourself as unworthy. What you must do is re-teach yourself, and avoid people and situations that reinforce this negative perception."

Erik bristled at being spoken to in such a manner. His head shot up. "You do not understand," he said bitterly. "You can never understand. You don't know what it's like to live with a face that sickens people, to be ridiculed, to be thought of as less than human because of it!"

His outburst did not seem to upset Anna Valérius in the least. "You are right. I have not had to endure what you have endured. And it is true that there will always be rude, unkind and hurtful people. There will always be people with small minds. But they are not all there is. I have not lived your life, nor would I wish anyone else to. What I want to do is help you to understand that at least here, within the walls of my house, you are accepted for being Erik duBois, my foster daughter's fiancé and a man who happens to have a scarred face. Don't keep living in the past, Erik. That way leads to more heartache. Live for the present…and the future. Now, put to rest all ideas of covering your face while you are in my house. Let this be our last discussion on the subject."

She got up and refilled the empty plate of cookies.

Erik sat staring at them, uncertain of what – if anything – he wanted to say at the moment.

"If I have spoken out of turn, Erik, it is only because I care for Christine…and for you." She was standing next to him, holding out the plate of cookies as if they were an olive branch, a peace offering.

He looked up at her.

"Yes," she said. "I care for you."

Tears were forming in his eyes, and he tried blinking them away as he took the plate and set it on the table. "No," he said softly, "you did not speak out of turn. I am a stubborn, bull-headed man. Once I get an idea in my head, it is hard to get it out." As he spoke, he could feel his mood lighten ever so slightly. Until now, Christine was the only person he had ever spoken candidly to about his face. He was surprised at how good it felt to be able to do so with another person. He gave Mamma a crooked smile. "I needed your lecture. I thank you for it, and for your patience in dealing with me. I hope that in time I shall live up to your expectations."

This time there was no sadness in Erik's smile.

**-0-0-0-**

**The inevitable Author's Notes:**

Victor Hugo (1802–85) was an ardent republican and defender of the revolutionary legacy who went into exile during the Second Empire (1852–70). He lived long enough to become an icon of the Third Republic. He portrayed the democratic aspects of the Revolution in glowing, indeed somewhat romanticized terms.

_Ninety-Three (Quatrevingt-treize), _was Hugo's last novel, published in 1874, shortly after the terrbile bloody upheaval of the Paris Commune. The novel concerns the Revolt in the Vendée - the suppression of the counter-revolutionary revolt in 1793 during the French Revolution. It is divided into three parts, but not chronologically; each part tells a different story, offering a different view of historical general events. The action mainly takes place in Paris and in the Vendée region of western France, and to a lesser extent at sea off the Channel Islands, where he latterly lived. Hugo has been criticized for his portrayal of the Bretons, whom he describes as "savages" and as speaking "a dead language".

-0-

And now for the recipe! Almond Butter Cookies / _Sablés Nantais_. These buttery cookies are flavored with almonds and kirsch.

**INGREDIENTS:  
**6 Tablespoons salted butter, softened  
1/2 cup sugar  
1-1/3 cups flour  
1-1/2 oz. ground almonds  
1 egg  
1-2 Tablespoons kirsch  
For the wash: 1 egg yolk beaten with 1 Tablespoon milk

**PREPARATION:  
**1. Cream the butter and sugar in a large bowl.  
2. Add all the other ingredients and mix until a smooth dough forms.  
3. Shape the dough into a ball, wrap with plastic and chill for 1 hour.  
4. Preheat the oven to 400F.  
5. Lightly flour your counter and roll out the dough till it's 1/4-inch thick.  
6. Cut out the cookies with a cookie cutter and place on a lightly greased baking sheet. Brush the tops with some of the egg wash and bake for 8-10 minutes.

**To serve: **Allow to cool on a rack. These cookies keep well.

-0-

Last but not least, a little shameless self-promotion. If you are ever in the mood for some sometimes irreverent, sometimes bawdy "mature" humor, may I recommend the Gypsy Heart of Darkness series I have written in collaboration with MadLizzy and Jaxboo? I'm not able to post a direct link here, but just click on my profile and you'll find them there. They're quite funny, if I must say so myself. And I will! Thanks as always to everyone who drops by and reads this story.

HDKingsbury


	30. Yes, Mamma!

Author's Note: I hope to have at least another chapter, hopefully two, to post next week. The rest of the family's going away for a few days and I'll have the house to myself! No one around to interrupt my writing.

HDKingsbury

* * *

**Chapter 29  
****Yes, Mamma!**

**-0-0-0-**

_Mamma's House – Afternoon  
__Friday, April 1, 1881 _

"At last!"

Erik laid the portmanteau on the bed and opened it, not sure which made him happier – the prospect of wearing his own clothes again, or the fact that Christine was back home. A broad smile broke upon his face as he looked over the treasure trove of garments Anatole had selected from his closet.

"You have no idea how eager I am to get out of this night shirt!" he exclaimed.

"Oh, I don't know," said Christine. "I rather liked having you in your nightshirt all the time."

He shot her a sly, wicked look. "I had no idea you had even noticed," he replied, feeling brave enough to wiggle his eyebrows at her.

"What? You expected me to take advantage of a man who was on his sick bed?"

"I'm not sick anymore."

She nodded appreciatively. "So I've noticed."

"By the way, where are Garron and d'Aubert? They did return from Paris with you, did they not?"

"Yes, but they won't be coming here till suppertime. Anatole said something about giving the two of us some time alone."

"Does he think you and I are going to…that is, that we'd…with Mamma in the house? Not that I would have any objections to being alone with you."

"I can see that you are very much improved," she said as she brought the tapestry bag over to him. "What did Mamma feed you while I was gone that put you in such a good mood? Cookies?" She opened the bag. "I hope I got everything you need."

The first things he saw when he looked inside were the mask and hairpiece. "Thank you, Christine. You don't know how good it will be to feel like myself again." He picked up the mask almost reverently, then set it and the wig on the dresser, wanting to clean up before putting them on.

Christine frowned. "I was hoping that, inside at least, you would no longer feel it necessary to wear that."

"Perhaps later, Christine. If it were only the three of us, it would not be necessary. But with the others coming over this evening? Right now I…I need a little more time. Please, tell me that you understand."

She walked over and put her arms around his neck, holding him close. Standing on her tip-toes, she pulled his face to hers and kissed his lips. "I understand, my love."

The two of them took the clothes out of the portmanteau and put them away. Garron had chosen enough shirts, trousers and jackets so that Erik would not need to be wearing the same clothes everyday.

"Perhaps next week we can go into town and order you a few more shirts, and anything else you might think of," Christine said as she helped Erik select which clothes he would wear to supper tonight.

Inside the tapestry bag, beneath the handkerchiefs and other accessories, were the bundles of bank notes and the black velvet bags. Removing these, Erik placed them in the bottom of one of the dresser drawers, beneath his shirts. Already he was considering a better hiding place, but for now, this would have to do.

"Ah! You remembered my cologne!" he exclaimed as he spied them in the bag. "And my shaving kit! Christine, you're an angel."

"I'm afraid I can't take credit for that. Anatole's the one who said, 'There is nothing like a man's favorite cologne to make him feel good about himself.'"

Erik laughed. She did a pretty good imitation of Garron. "He's right, you know. Remind me to thank him."

"Oh, I think you'll remember on your own."

At last, he came to the bottom of the bag and stopped. There he saw the two books. A look of joy spread across his face as he took them out and laid them on the bedside table. Now he had some books he could truly enjoy. With these, he could once again explore the depths of the oceans with the mysterious Captain Nemo. He looked over at Christine, and saw her beaming at him. "How did you know?"

"A simple matter of deductive reasoning. They were the two that looked as though they'd been read the most."

"You've been reading detective stories again, haven't you?"

"And here," she said, reaching into the bag and taking out the music score, holding it out to him. "Anatole and I both thought you might like having this with you."

He took the sheets from her and held them reverently. His eyes misted a moment as he saw that she was handing him his _Don Juan Triumphant_. He took a deep breath, not trusting himself to speak. In that moment, he cherished her more than ever before. Such a small, thoughtful gesture, yet one that meant so much to him, to have his music once again. His thoughts went immediately to the piano in the parlor and he knew he would have to have it tuned, and soon. He looked at her, eyes filled with love. "Thank you, Christine," he said softly, gently.

"Don't go getting all sentimental on me," she teased, feeling strangely overcome with emotion herself. "You know, before you get dressed," she said, eyeing the robe that had been a permanent part of his wardrobe of late, "you might want to take a bath. I'm sure you'd feel better after a nice soak."

"A bath?" Erik's eyes lit up. The thought of luxuriating in a tub of hot water was extremely appealing, especially as he had not realized there was a bathtub in the house. "But…where? All that is in the washroom is a sink and a toilet."

"Downstairs, off the kitchen, is a bathing room. Mamma's house has inside plumbing, but without a boiler, we have only cold running water. If anyone wants a hot bath, the water has to be heated on the stove and carried to the bathtub. It's much easier taking the water into the next room than it is to carry it upstairs."

-0-0-0-

Erik sat at the kitchen table, patiently waiting as the two women prepared the bathing room. He had volunteered to help, but they had insisted that they did not wish him to risk aggravating wounds that were healing. "I've done this enough times in my life," Mamma had said. "It is nothing I am not already accustomed to doing." So Erik sat and watched, feeling like the fifth wheel on a coach.

Christine went into the small room, its floor, walls and ceiling tiled for ease of cleaning, and lit a large, crackling fire in the fireplace, ensuring that the room would be toasty warm. In the center of the room stood Mamma's pride and joy – her cast-iron slipper-style clawfoot bath tub, with its sloped sides and white porcelain finish. With one end higher than the other, the bather could lean back and relax. Along the far wall were a couple of small stools, as well as a linen press in which were kept towels, soaps, jars of bath salts and other washing utensils. She set out the items Erik would need for his bath– a sponge, a pitcher for rinsing, the bath salts, soap, a towel and a sheet – and returned to the kitchen, shutting the door behind her to keep the room nice and warm.

Back in the kitchen, she went to one of the cupboards and set out salve and bandages, in case they should be needed to dress any of Erik's wounds. She was sure that by now, the only ones that might need special attention were those remaining on his wrists. The others were well on their way to healing and disappearing. Then she joined Mamma, chatting with the older women about what they should make for supper while they waited for the water in two large copper kettles to come to a boil.

Erik, relegated to the role of observer, sat back in his chair and watched Christine. Her hair was once again pulled away from her face and held back by a kerchief. A light sheen of perspiration glistened on her forehead as she stood by the stove, her sleeves pushed up past her elbows while her dress was protected by one of Mamma's aprons. She looked so happy, so content; Erik adored her. He watched with his head tilted to one side as a feeling of wistfulness came over him. This was how he always imagined a wife should look – the perfect picture of domesticity. All he could think of at this moment was the day they would be married.

-0-

Christine poured the last of the hot water into the tub and added some of the bath salts to help soothe any aches and pains. Returning to the kitchen, she held the door to the bathing room open for Erik, handing him a large bath sheet.

He entered the room and was surprised to see that she had followed him inside and appeared to be waiting. He hesitated and cleared his throat, trying to give her a hint that it was time for her to step out. But she did not give any indication of leaving; instead, she stood there, apparently waiting for him to undress. What was she doing? Didn't she understand that she was supposed to wait in the other room?

"Um…shouldn't you turn around or something?"

"I didn't realize you were bashful," she said, a twinkle in her eyes and a playful smirk on her face. "And here I thought you were the one who was upset that I hadn't noticed your lack of attire earlier. Oh well, I must have been mistaken. Very well, I shall wait in the kitchen," she said, laughing as she left, closing the door behind her. After giving him what she felt was long enough to disrobe and get into the water, she called out, "Are you decent?"

She heard him mumble something that sounded like yes. Knocking on the door to let him know she was coming in, she stuck her head through the door. Satisfied when she saw Erik was in the tub, she entered the room. Walking about, she picked up the clothes he had just taken off and was about to leave.

"Wha—where are you going with those?" he bellowed. "I didn't bring a change of clothes down with me."

"And whose fault is that? You're not going to put these old, dirty clothes back on. They're going with the rest of the laundry, to be washed later."

"What am I supposed to wear when I get out of here?"

She stood there with her hands on her hips and tsked at him. "Silly man. You should have remembered to bring your clothes down with you." She only wanted to laugh harder when she saw the look of indignation on his face. "Oh, very well," she said in mock exasperation. "I'll leave your robe. Or if you prefer, you can wrap yourself in that sheet and pretend you're Julius Caesar…"

"Then bring the robe closer, so I don't have to…to…"

"To what? Walk over and get it yourself?" she teased. She laughed as she left the room with the dirty clothes, tossing him a bar of soap before exiting.

"And shut the door behind you," he shouted after her, trying to locate the cake of soap that had splashed into the tub and was now floating around somewhere in the bathwater.

"Anything you wish, my lord and master," she replied as she shut the door.

Mamma shook her head and chuckled.

-0-

Inside the bathing room, Erik was trying to lather up the sponge, but was having an awkward time with his hands when he heard another knock on the door. He saw it open and watched in shock as Christine peeked through the opening and then walked in. He could feel his face begin to burn, and he wanted to say something about a man requiring some privacy when bathing. "Wh-what are you doing back in here?"

Christine ignored him and walked over to the wall. Picking up of the stools, she brought it with her and placed it by the side of the bathtub where she took her seat, daring him to say something, anything. "I'm helping you with your bath."

"I'm quite capable of washing myself…," he sputtered. In spite of the awkwardness of the situation, he the idea of Christine bathing him sounded extremely delightful. But certain proprieties needed to be maintained while they were living under Mamma's roof, especially since the last he saw, the dear woman was still in the kitchen.

"Who do you think helped wash you when you were brought to this house, sick and unconscious?"

He thought back to when he first woke up in Mamma's house, and the question Christine refused to answer that day. "It was you, wasn't it," he said, more a statement than a question. His immediate reaction was to look down at himself, wondering what she must have thought when she had seen him under such wretched circumstances.

"Don't worry. I didn't faint."

He looked up at her and saw that devilish grin back on her face as she held out her hand and asked him for the sponge and soap.

"You're really going to do this?"

"Of course. Have you forgotten about your ribs," she said, as if he should have known. He flashed a puzzled look at her. "The bruises may be fading, but I know you still can't raise your arms very high, which makes it tricky to wash your back," she explained. "You do want your back washed, don't you? And then there are your fingers. It's hard to scrub yourself if you can't hold onto the soap and sponge."

"I was doing well enough on my own, thank you."

She blithely ignored his sarcasm. "Besides, it always feels better when someone else scrubs your back, don't you agree?"

"I wouldn't know. I never had anyone else scrub my back," he muttered under his breath. "And how would you know? Who's been scrubbing yours?" he shot back at her.

"Why, Erik! I do think you are jealous!" she chuckled and splashed a little water at him.

This was completely outside Erik's realm of experience, this playfulness at bath time. When she splashed the water he instinctively flinched and blinked, then felt very silly for reacting in such a manner.

"I'm sorry, Erik. Did I get soap in your eye?"

He glared at her; she didn't look sorry. In fact, she looked to be enjoying tormenting him. He harrumphed as he tried to regain his dignity, which was rather difficult when sitting naked in a bathtub. "You still haven't answered my question."

"I ought to let you sit here and stew. Whom do you think I meant? I was referring to when I was a little girl, and Mamma or Papa would wash my back for me."

Chagrined, he handed her the sponge without another word, determined to sit perfectly still in spite of how his body was reacting to her touch. He refused to say anything, fighting to maintain his composure as she lathered the sponge and rubbed his back with it, being careful of the bruises and abrasions. She was right; it felt very good to have someone else wash his back. The knots melted and his muscles relaxed, and Erik had the silly notion that he was going to melt into a puddle of sheer delight.

Christine watched in delight, as Erik seemed to transform before her very eyes from a being stiff as a statue into a pool on contentment. The phrase "happy as a clam at high tide" came to mind as she saw him close his eyes and lean forward slightly, giving her better access to his back. "Do they still hurt much?" she asked, her fingers following the outlines of fading bruises.

"A little," he admitted, his skin tingling wherever she touched him, "but not as bad as last week."

She leaned her head close to his and whispered into his ear. "Don't fall asleep, Erik. I'd hate to have you drown in the tub."

He turned and smirked at her. "You mean you wouldn't jump in here and save me?"

"Only as a last resort. Now keep your head forward. I'll wash your hair next."

"You didn't answer my question."

"Your indecent question is not deserving of an answer, sir," she said playfully. "Now, keep your head down so I can wash your hair without getting soap in your eyes."

"As my mistress commands," he said obediently. She made some more suds from the soap and gently massaged his scalp. The contusions from the blows had all but disappeared, but there were still several scabs where the skin had been broken, especially on the right side where the hair grew thin and sparse. "You could probably use a hair cut," she said, noticing how long the rest of his hair had grown. "Perhaps when we're finished here, Mamma can trim it for you. She's quite good at it. She used to always cut the professor's hair."

"Mmmmm…" was all Erik could say as he sat in the warm water, taking pleasure in the wondrous sensations her fingers created as they worked their way over his scalp.

She dipped the pitcher into the water and rinsed the soap from his hair. As the water cascaded down his back, she saw that there were old scars – several of them long and straight, like slashes of white against his flesh. She ran her fingers over them, and felt Erik shiver. "Are you chilled?" she asked, knowing it was not really the temperature, as the fire in the bathing room was crackling nicely, but wanting to give Erik an excuse should he feel the need for one.

"No, not really. It's just that your fingers…they…they tickled." Between the warmth of the water and the nearness of Christine, Erik had never felt so relaxed yet so aroused. He chuckled, a deep rumbling sound that came from within his chest.

"Here, then," Christine said, a saucy grin on her face as she held the sponge out to him. "Wash your own front side, if my fingers tickle so much."

Barriers were falling, and Erik felt bolder. "Are you sure you wouldn't rather…" he stopped and took the sponge, and her hand, into his own. "My injuries are not completely healed. I may not be able to hold the sponge…properly. Perhaps it wouldn't tickle so much if you held the sponge…and I guided it…"

Christine gazed at him, her eyes locking upon his. She felt, rather than saw, his hand guide the sponge over his shoulders, across his chest… She was caught in a spell, a spell she did not want to break. Her gaze turned to their hands, and then back to his face. Gone was the silly grin from her face; it had been replaced by something more sensuous. She leaned closer; the fabric of her bodice pressed against his wet skin as her lips softly brushed his ear. "I…I think I'm starting to understand how this works," she said in a voice that was somewhere between a purr and a whisper. She looked back at his chest; there she saw another long, straight scar over his left breast. "How did you get those scars?" she asked, the playful sexuality replaced with concern.

_Damn!_ Erik thought. _Why did she have to ask about those? _

"They're old," he said dismissively, disappointed that the sight of them had broken the mood that was building up between them. He saw by the look on her face that she was not satisfied with his answer, and added, "They were knife wounds, back from the time I was living in Persia."

At that moment, a crashing noise came from the kitchen. Christine turned around, wondering why it sounded so loud and saw that the door was open. Apparently, she hadn't pulled it completely shut. She heard Mamma muttering something in Swedish as she got up to close it. "Is everything all right, Mamma?" she asked, heading to the kitchen, worried that her foster-mother might have injured herself.

_"Ja,"_ Mamma said. "Everything's fine. I dropped one of the kettles while trying to put it away, is all." Then she heard Mamma say under her breath, _"Har icke jag upphöjat du bättre? Nära dörren närhelst du två ha lyst till startande din 'journey av upptäckten'?"_

Christine laughed, relieved that Mamma hadn't scalded herself with hot water and amused by her admonition about keeping the door closed during journeys of discovery. _"Ja,_ Mamma," she replied in Swedish, just to let Mamma know she understood. When she shut the door this time, she made sure it was securely closed. She returned to the little stool next to the tub, wearing a smile bright enough to light up the room.

"What did she say?"

"She wanted to know if you'd like more hot water."

"No thanks," he said, the look on her face telling him that Christine was withholding something. "I suspect I'm in enough hot water as it is."

-0-0-0-

* * *

I'm not sure if Mamma's Swedish is 100 accurate. I used an online translating program called InterTran.


	31. Clothes Make the Man

**Author's Note:** A huge thanks to Lizzy's contributions. During one of our email brainstorming sessions, what started out as a lark ended up becoming a significant part of this chapter. -- HDKingsbury

**-0-0-0-**

**Chapter 30  
****Clothes Make the Man**

**-0-0-0-**

_Later that same afternoon at Mamma's house _

Erik was in front of the full-length cheval mirror that stood in the corner of his room, inspecting his appearance now that he was more appropriately attired. Gone were the old nightshirt and robe. In their stead were clean shirt, trousers, waistcoat and jacket. These garments, along with his wig and mask (and, of course, the bath) made him feel like a new man. Something, however, was not right.

He tugged at the waistcoat, pulling it down, squinting at what he saw in the glass. Then he did the same with the jacket. He turned sideways and tugged again. Frowning, he still was not satisfied. Eyeing his reflection critically he realized what the problem was – his clothes were too loose. Between his incarceration and subsequent illness, he had lost a lot of weight. Thanks to Mamma's cooking, he had gained back some of it, but not all. He knew of only one solution.

"Christine," he called out, knowing full well she was waiting for him in Mamma's room. She had followed him upstairs after his bath. When they reached his room, he thanked her for the offer but insisted that he could dress himself. She had pretended to go off in a huff, but the chuckle he heard as she walked away told him otherwise.

"You called, Erik?" she answered sweetly from down the hall.

"Yes, could you…uh, come here?"

"Only if you're decent," she called back in a singsong voice.

He couldn't help but laugh. She greatly delighted in teasing him of late, an aspect of her personality that he was learning to enjoy. "And bring a needle and some thread," he added.

"But, of course, my dearest. Your wish is my command."

_If only that were true,_ he mused as scandalous thoughts crept into his mind, not for the first time thanking whatever powers that governed the universe for bringing her into his life. Taking a deep breath, he forced his mind back to the present and pushed aside those other thoughts for a later time. Standing before the mirror, he heard a light tapping at the door. In the reflection, he saw Christine poke her head through the partially-opened door.

"May I come in, sir?" she asked demurely.

He turned and gave her a courtly bow. "But of course, Mademoiselle."

Upon entering the room, the first thing she noticed was that he was wearing his hairpiece, and that his mask was lying atop the dresser. Whether he wore them or not did not matter to her in the least; in fact, she preferred him without either these days. She had grown to love his misshapen and scarred face. Not being able to see all of his features could also be very vexing. When he covered half of his face, it was much harder to read his expressions.

She hoped the day would come when he no longer felt it necessary to wear them, but she understood his need, too, and for that reason made no comment on their presence. And she had to admit that he was more confident when he wore them. When Anatole and Reynard d'Aubert arrived later this evening, she suspected that he would want all the confidence boosters he could get.

Gazing at him as he stood there, it was like discovering anew how handsome he was, even if he could not see it himself. There was a natural grace and elegance about him that others could practice for a lifetime yet never achieve. A closer look, though, showed her the purpose of the needle and thread. Excusing herself, she left the room and returned a few minutes later with a pin cushion and scissors to add to the needle and thread she had brought with her. Now she had the proper tools with which to make a few quick alterations, so that Erik could appear at his best. As the saying went, clothes made the man.

Directing him to stand in the middle of the room, she stood first in front, and then in back, pinning fabric here, making a tuck there, deciding where the jacket should be taken for a better fit. She would make the repairs by hand, and in such a way that the stitches could easily be let back out once he had returned to his former weight.

"How did you and Mamma get along while I was gone?" she asked.

"We had an interesting conversation this morning," Erik said, holding the pin cushion for her.

"Hmm?" she said, taking a pin from her mouth. "You and Mamma talked? That's good. What did you talk about?"

"Oh…things," he shrugged. "We were just getting acquainted. She'd been baking cookies." His mouth started watering at the memory of those almond cookies.

Christine nodded. "Mmm, yes, I saw them in the kitchen. They're my favorite. What else did you talk about?"

"Oh, nothing really."

Finished with the pinning, she had Erik slip off the jacket off. She took it over to the chair where she sat by the window and began sewing. He walked over and stood next to her, watching her fingers as they deftly pushed the needle up and down, up and down, pulling the thread through the cloth, making neat, tiny stitches.

She looked up from her sewing. "You take great pleasure in doing that, don't you?"

"Doing what?" Erik asked innocently.

"What you just did! Bringing a topic up and then refusing to talk about it."

She leaned forward and in a stage whisper said, "If you don't tell me what you and Mamma talked about, I won't wash your back again."

Taking hold of her hands, he pulled her up from the chair. Down on the floor went the jacket and scissors as her arms wound themselves 'round his neck. With his hands resting on the small of her back, he pressed her close and kissed her passionately. Christine responded, her lips parting as she thrilled at the sensation, while her fingers ran through his hair. Reluctantly, she forced herself to break away. "Well," she said breathlessly, "I guess someone's feeling a lot better."

Smiling, he pressed her back into his embrace, his hands rubbing the length of her back, causing shivers of excitement to course through her body. He nuzzled her neck, then kissed the soft shell of her ear. "What did Mamma say this afternoon, when she was clamoring around in the kitchen?" he whispered.

"I'll never get these alterations completed in time if we keep this up." She giggled as she slipped out of his hold and bent down to pick up the jacket. "And you're not going to get it out of me that easily. If you won't tell me what you and Mamma talked about, I'm not going to tell you what she said." And with that, she returned to her chair and resumed her sewing, her face a delightful shade of rose. "Besides, if you really want to know, why don't you ask Mamma? She likes you, you know."

Erik walked over to the chair and leaned over her, the palms of his hands resting on the arms. "Yes, I know."

"Then why are you hovering over me? Are you trying to intimidate me, sir?"

He snorted and stepped over to the window, looking out at lilac bushes that would soon be in bloom. "You are much too formidable a person for me to intimidate, Mademoiselle. As for Mamma, she may like me, but I have the sneaking suspicion that she would not tell me."

"She might...if you asked nicely."

He shook his head as he walked over to the bed and sat on its edge. Oh, she loved playing the coquette of late.

"What are you shaking your head about?"

"I was just wondering whatever happened to that shy, demure young girl I once knew."

"I believe she's now grown up."

For the next several minutes, she sewed in silence while Erik sat and watched.

"Christine?"

"Yes?" she said, looking up once again. The tone of his voice had changed. He sounded serious.

"I've been meaning to ask you, how have you managed to get time off from the opera house? The season's not over, yet for the past several weeks all your time has been spent here. How were you able to persuade them to allow you to leave?"

"That's simple," she answered softly. "I've resigned from the Paris Opera."

What? He couldn't believe what he just heard. She resigned? "But…why? Why didn't you tell me sooner?"

"I didn't want to trouble you about it while you were ill. You had enough on your mind. Besides, it was the only thing I could do. I wasn't about to trust your care to anyone else. Once I knew the truth of what had happened, there was no way I could return to the opera house. Raoul de Chagny is still one its major patrons, and once he returns from wherever it is he and Meg Giry went to, I'm sure he will once again be spending most of his free time there. And while they may not have been directly involved, Firmin Richard and Armand Moncharmin were informed that something had happened, yet chose to do nothing. I cannot go back there. Not as matters currently stand. Perhaps in the future."

Erik frowned. "Richard and Moncharmin knew? I wish you had told me this sooner."

"To what end? There hasn't been time," she said gently. "My main concern of late has been to get you well again. They are little men, not worthy of our interest."

"Christine, I'm sorry," he said, raking his fingers through his hair. It devastated him that she had been forced to take such drastic action, yet he was relieved that she did not have to risk being anywhere near de Chagny and his ilk. "I'll…I'll make it up to you. I promise."

She saw from the look on his face that this latest revelation saddened him. "Please, Erik; there's nothing to be sorry for. It's only temporary. I'm confident that I shall one day sing on the stage again."

"Are you sure? Richard and Moncharmin will certainly see to it that you are labeled as being troublesome and unreliable. They will no doubt arrange things so that you are not hired by any other opera house."

"Maybe in Paris, but surely not elsewhere," she offered. "I highly doubt that their influence is so great that they control every opera house in every country on every continent."

"Are you suggesting that you would not mind if we didn't return to Paris to live?"

Lately, Erik had been considering the very real possibility that he would not be returning to his home beneath the opera house. At least, not on a permanent basis. Apparently, Christine had been thinking along those lines as well. Would it be that hard to live somewhere else? Maybe not, not with Christine at his side. Had she not already spoken of a desire for them to have a house of their own, once they were married? Recent events may have necessitated a premature end to what had been a promising career at the Paris Opera, but he would make it up to her. Wherever they ultimately ended up, he would move heaven and earth to ensure that one day she would sing on the stage again.

"I can live without the Paris Opera, but I can't live without you," Christine responded wistfully. She kept her eyes lowered, not wanting Erik to see the tears that threatened. She watched the needle as she basted the last of the alterations in place. Glancing up, she saw the unmistakable look of guilt and self-recrimination written all over his face. "All I want is to be wherever you are, my love," she added brightly.

A few more stitches, and her task was completed. By now, she had once again mastered her emotions, refusing to feel sad over leaving the opera. She was with Erik; that was all she ever wanted or needed.

"Now," she said, making herself cheery again, "try this on and let me see how it fits with these temporary alterations." She got up from her chair and shook out the jacket, holding it for him. "But first...let me look at you," she said, a small frown creasing her forehead when she noticed that his collar hung loose around his neck. The shirt sagged around his chest, too. She stood behind him, scrutinizing his reflection in the mirror while gathering a fold of excess fabric in her hand to determine how much the shirt needed to be taken. "I see I've got my work cut out for me this afternoon." She sighed.

Erik frowned, noticing her dismay. "What is it?" he asked, also looking at his reflection.

"You'll have to take this off," she said, tugging his shirt. She grinned shamelessly.

Erik froze, momentarily confused by Christine's suggestion. "You want me to take off my shirt," he repeated hesitantly.

"Yes, and while you're at it, you may as well slip out of those pants. The waist must be taken in." She pulled slightly at the waistband to make her point. "There's an awful lot of give here; they're practically hanging on you. Look how baggy they are." She leaned her head against his shoulder, and tsked. "That will never do. We can't have you running about the house with your trousers sliding down, can we?"

He turned to face her. "Mademoiselle," he said, his voice catching in his throat, "I…I can't take off my pants. My undergarments are also loose. If I take off my pants, they may fall to the floor."

Christine drew in her breath sharply. "Oh, I see," she whispered into his ear as she put her arms around his waist and drew him closer. "That's a chance I may be willing to risk."

"Well, I'm not. With Mamma lurking about the house, _one_ of us must exercise some self-restraint!" he said, disentangling himself. Taking a few safety pins from the pin cushion with him, he went to the closet and returned, holding out his robe. "If you will excuse me a moment, I shall be right back with my shirt and trousers, and then you may finish your alterations." With that, he headed towards the washroom.

Christine fell back into her chair, gales of laughter ringing from the room.

-0-0-0-


	32. The Girl with the TipTilted Nose

**Chapter 31  
The Girl with the Tip-Tilted Nose**

**-0-0-0-**

_Mamma's House - the same day  
__Suppertime _

"Where are you two staying in Perros?" Mamma asked Garron and d'Aubert as she accompanied them to the parlor.

"At The Inn of the Setting Sun," Anatole answered. "It's rather quaint and charming in a rustic sort of way."

"Quaint and rustic as in no running water, lumpy mattresses, pillows nearly devoid of feathers, fireplaces without of firewood, and only one toilet for the entire second story," chimed in Reynard.

Anatole arched an eyebrow. "I don't know what you're talking about. My room is quite comfortable."

D'Aubert's upper lip curled. "That's because you spent all your time in the tavern next door."

Mamma chuckled at the two. "I wish I could offer you gentlemen a room in my house, but the only two bedrooms are already occupied…unless Erik would care to share his with you? No? Then, would either of you care for something to drink before supper? Christine and Erik should be down shortly."

-0-

Erik insisted that he didn't need the cane to go downstairs, but Christine wasn't so sure. It was amazing how much he had improved in such a short time, but she could see that he still tired easily in spite of his protestations otherwise. He was actually going to leave his hands unbandaged, but she was worried that he could end up re-injuring them, and in the end persuaded Erik to allow her to wrap at least the broken fingers again. Making their way towards the stairs, she discreetly offered her arm, pleased to see his small smile of appreciation. Now, when Erik stepped into the parlor, he would be able to do so with a confidence he had not felt in many days.

-0-

Erik, with Christine at his side, entered the parlor. As the couple stood in the doorway, d'Aubert and Garron saw someone far different from the battered and beaten human wreckage that they had found in the basement cell at the asylum barely three weeks ago. The man before them had a presence that was both commanding and compelling. Christine was beaming, while Erik was attentive to her every need.

"Ah, a match made in heaven, eh Reynard?" Anatole nudged his companion as they entered the room.

"_Ja,"_ said Mamma, standing behind Garron and d'Aubert, "they are made for each other, wouldn't you agree, Messieurs?"

Anatole was the first to step forward. "Nothing like a fresh suit of clothes to make a man feel good about himself, eh?" he smiled, offering Erik his hand. "Oh, I forgot," he said, noticing the splinted fingers.

"That they do…Anatole." Erik had almost called him Monsieur Garron, but remembered not to at the last minute. "I would accept your hand, but as you can see, Christine insisted that some of my fingers are not yet fully mended. I think she was afraid I would try to play the piano tonight."

"That makes it rather awkward at the dinner table, doesn't it?"

Erik nodded. "But not as bad as it could be. The worst injuries were to my left hand. At least I can hold a fork reasonably well. By the way, I am grateful for the items you selected from my house."

Anatole tried to shrug the matter off. "Think nothing of it. I merely kept in mind what I should like to have if I were stuck away from my home."

"They are much appreciated, nevertheless."

"I was quite intrigued by the score. I hope that someday you will play a selection for us?" Anatole asked.

"Perhaps," Erik said. "Once my hands are fully healed."

"But of course." Anatole then introduced Erik to Reynard d'Aubert. "I don't believe the two of you have had a chance to actually meet. Erik, this is Reynard d'Aubert; Reynard, Erik duBois."

"It is a pleasure to meet you at last, Monsieur duBois," Reynard nodded his head formally. He looked so proper, Christine almost expected him to click his heels together. "I, too, would offer my hand, but do not wish to be the cause of any discomfort."

"The gesture is appreciated nonetheless," replied Erik as he looked at the detective, gauging the man and being satisfied with what he saw. Christine had told how the former police inspector had been instrumental in securing his release from that hideous place, but this was the first time he was cognizant of meeting the man. A flash of recognition came. "You were there at the sanitarium."

The barest smile flickered across d'Aubert's face before it quickly disappeared. "So you remember. I wasn't sure you would."

"Indeed, it is something that sticks in the mind, the image of a policeman standing over you, apparently come to arrest you."

Christine couldn't believe what she was seeing. Here was Erik, who insisted he hated being around other people, engaging in small talk and charming everyone in the room, even the normally very reserved Reynard d'Aubert.

"Might I say that the country air appears to agree with you?" d'Aubert was saying.

"Indeed, it does. As does Mamma's cooking. Allow me to thank you properly for all you've done – for both of us."

While the four of them chatted, Mamma came over to Christine. "Might I borrow my ward from you gentlemen for a few minutes? I could use a hand in preparing the _beurre blanc_ sauce."

"May I help?" offered Erik.

"No, this is woman's work. Besides, the only reason you are offering is so you can sneak some of those cookies from the kitchen." She winked at him. "No, you men, you stay out here and talk. Christine and I will manage well enough."

Christine obediently followed Mamma. "Woman's work, indeed!" she snorted once they were out of earshot. "Since when did you ever subscribe to that kind of thinking?"

"Since I decided Erik needed some time away from us women, and an opportunity to enjoy the company of other men."

-0-

Supper was superb, starting out with _soupe des pirates_ – pirate soup – a local specialty that came from the seafaring tradition of Brittany and which was made with a variety of fish cooked in red wine and seasoned with assorted spices, shallots and garlic. For the main dish, Mamma had prepared an excellent poached salmon drizzled with a rich, creamy sauce. After a dessert of _kouign-amman_, a buttery yeast cake that was another Breton specialty, the men retired to the parlor while the two women stayed behind to clean up.

Standing over the sink, Mamma was washing dishes, handing them to Christine to dry and put away in the cupboard. "I was wondering, Christine, have you and Erik slept together?"

Christine almost dropped the plates she was carrying. _"What?"_ She could not deny that this was something that had been on her mind of late, this sexual attraction that was growing between the two of them. But to have Mamma come out in the open and ask such a thing? She looked to see her foster mother chuckling.

"Now, don't go getting all flustered. I'm not being judgmental; I was simply asking because I think you should be sure that the two of you are physically compatible before anything permanent is decided upon."

Christine blushed prettily, her eyes wandering towards the door to the bathing room, wondering what might have happened earlier that afternoon if Mamma hadn't been in the kitchen. "Physically compatible? That isn't what the Church teaches, Mamma."

Mamma harrumphed. "The Church is governed by a lot of meaningless rules made up by old men bent on keeping women in their place. All I'm saying is that if you don't enjoy it before you are married, it won't get any better afterwards. Marriage should be viewed as a partnership and, if some element were missing – such as physical compatibility – the spouses should each be allowed to find that element through loving more than one individual. That is why it doesn't hurt to find these things out before you're wedded. It saves a lot of time, especially if your husband-to-be doesn't share your philosophy."

"Are you suggesting that I seek out other men?"

Mamma laughed kind-heartedly and took Christine by the hand. "No, I'm only saying that you should know what you're getting into."

Christine hugged Mamma. "Is this where you and I have a mother-daughter talk? I may be 'innocent,' but I'm not ignorant. Living and working in the opera house is an education in itself! I've lost track of how many times I accidentally stumbled upon an assignation."

"Perhaps, but seeing is not experiencing, and how will you know unless you've tried it?" Mamma put her hands up in the air and shook her head. "No, I don't want to know any details. I'm only saying that if the opportunity presents itself, and the two of you are willing, you should not let society's conventions inhibit you."

Christine chuckled. "I'm sure Erik will appreciate knowing that."

When they finished cleaning, they rejoined the men in the parlor, Christine's eyes lingering on Erik as she considered Mamma's remarks.

-0-

"How much do you remember of the day you were kidnapped? Can you tell me what happened?"

Erik had known that, sooner or later, he would have to talk about it. It wasn't something he looked forward to, but at the same time understood that it wasn't simply idle curiosity that fueled the detective's need to know. The women had returned from the kitchen, Christine taking the seat next to him on the sofa, her hand resting on his arm. Her concern for him was evident by the look on her face, her eyes full of sympathy as she returned his steady gaze.

"Where would you like me to start?" he said quietly.

"Wherever you would like. Whatever you are comfortable telling us."

Drawing in a deep breath, he offered an abbreviated account of how he had been abducted, maintaining a detached point of view. While he spoke the tone of his voice changed, it became flat, dispassionate, as if he were describing something that happened to someone else. He still blamed himself for being careless. "I once boasted that I could take care of myself. It appears that I was wrong."

"Neither of us had any idea Raoul would stoop to something so low," Christine said, squeezing his arm.

He smiled back at her, patting her hand. "I suppose," he said. Erik went on to explain how he had learned the name of one of his abductors – Fournier – and that his treatment at the asylum was less than gentle, choosing to omit many details. Maybe someday he would be able to talk about it with Christine, but looking over at her right now, he knew it would not be today. Garron and d'Aubert had both been there, had seen the conditions; that was enough. Even now, after three weeks, it was still painful to remember the despair that had come over him when he thought he would never leave that God-forsaken place. He could see no reason to distress Christine and Mamma, did not want to burden anyone else with those memories.

While Erik spoke of his ordeal, Christine watched him closely. His body language spoke louder than his words of how difficult this was for him – the lines of his face deepening, his shoulders tensing. She wondered if the others could see it as well, and several times looked across to Mamma, who without words was able to reassure her that Erik was doing well. Whatever he may have been feeling inside, he managed to project an appearance of ease. She leaned her head against his arm, not caring whether it was improper to publicly show such open displays of affection. She wanted to let him know she understood, and was proud of him.

Encouraged by her actions, he discreetly circled an arm around her waist and held her close. She was as much his anchor as he was hers. "Well, that is my story," he said, letting out a deep breath as he paused to collect his thoughts. This was the first time either of them had discussed in any detail the events that had begun on a snowy February night. "Now I have some questions of my own. I've been wondering, how were you able to find out what had happened to me, where I was being held."

"It is Mlle Daaé who deserves most of the credit," d'Aubert said admiringly, nodding in Christine's direction. "She was quite the detective. I have no doubt that if she ever chose to, she would put me to shame."

"Monsieur d'Aubert, you are far too generous with your praise," she replied modestly. "I did nothing more than use common sense – with a generous portion luck thrown in." She then went on to tell of her unsuccessful attempts at playing detective, of how, when she was at wit's end, Anatole had come to her with his offer of help. "It was really Monsieur d'Aubert who is responsible for working out the plan to free you from the sanitarium." She looked over at the detective and was rewarded with one of his rare smiles.

"Well, it's obvious that I am indebted to all of you. I hope someday you will allow me to properly express my gratitude. But I do have some concerns. The men responsible for what happened are still out there," Erik said, a sharp edge creeping into his voice with the last statement.

"And that is why I asked Mlle Daaé if I could return to Perros with her," Reynard acknowledged. "I have been following up on matters as best as possible, keeping tabs on those involved.

"I had one of my associates call on Monsieur Delacroix's establishment, and learned that the ringleader of the trio that kidnapped you, Jean-Claude Fournier, has disappeared, gone to ground. Once he discovered that you had been turned over to the 'police' he apparently became worried that his part in this escapade would be brought to light and decided it was time to move on. His two accomplices, a couple of petty criminals named Alphonse Barbier and Gérard Gaultier, have been persuaded to act as informants for my associate and me. They have been given the task of keeping an eye out for Fournier, and are to let me know immediately should they discern his whereabouts and any plans he may be making."

Christine could not hold back the shiver of alarm that crawled down her spine and settled in the pit of her stomach. Her foolish wishes that the worst was over were not going to be granted. Apprehensive, she looked over at Erik, fighting back a sudden urge to cry.

He saw her fear, and held her close. "It's all right, my love," he said to her, his voice calm. "I'm not alone anymore. This time, I shall be prepared for them – should they decide to interfere in my life again."

"Erik is right, Christine," Mamma said, the first time she had spoken since returning to the parlor. "He is not alone."

Warmth flowed through Erik at her words. What he was being presented with here in this parlor was something he had always sought – a sense of belonging.

"What about Delacroix himself?" asked Anatole abruptly, engrossed in considering the possibility of danger.

"As for Monsieur Delacroix and his institution, I have something special planned," d'Aubert replied. Anatole could practically hear the sneer in his friend's voice. "I have planted a seed in the mind of a friend who is an investigative reporter for _Le Temps,_" he went on to explain, a wicked glint showing in his steel-blue eyes as he remembered the pompous Delacroix with disdain. "My friend is planning on writing an exposé on the treatment of the mentally ill, and the vile conditions that are rampant within certain institutions. Delacroix's will be one of those…exposed."

"You sound positively evil, d'Aubert," said Anatole.

"And absolutely pleased with himself," added Erik. "You almost make me want to feel sorry for Monsieur Delacroix." He saw the shocked expressions on the faces in the room. He grinned. "I said almost."

Several chuckles were heard 'round the room. "What about bringing charges against these miscreants?" asked Anatole. "Certainly there are laws against kidnapping a man and holding him against his will."

Erik shook his head sadly. "I would like nothing better than to repay my hosts for their many kindnesses. I also understand that in my particular situation, to do so is not possible. Bringing charges against them would mean exposing myself to public scrutiny." He made a half-hearted gesture towards the masked side of his face. "It's easier to believe a man with a deformed face is a monster rather than the injured party."

"Quite true, I'm afraid," said d'Aubert. "We know that Monsieur Erik is the victim, but the justices may not see things quite the same way."

"But what about Raoul?" asked Christine. "Is he to be allowed to simply walk away from all this as if nothing happened?"

"As for de Chagny, I've heard some rather interesting rumors of late. The latest Paris gossip has some sort of rift or difficulty developing between the vicomte and his older brother. I'm thinking that Comte Philippe may have caught wind of his brother's activities, and is not pleased. This supposedly is why Raoul left town – that he was angry with his older brother and went off to pout. However, Raoul de Chagny is expected to be returning to Paris in the next week or two. I have no specifics at this time, and I strongly recommend that you remain here in Perros. The farther away from Paris, the better."

No one said anything for several seconds, the realization that the danger was still out there settling like a pall over the room. Finally, Erik broke the silence. "Monsieur d'Aubert, you have not once asked for compensation. You have paid for everything out of your own pocket. I can assure you that once matters are cleared up, I can easily reimburse you."

D'Aubert declined, which was what Erik had expected him to do. "That won't be necessary. You see, in helping you I am also settling a small score of my own. Allow me to explain. I had an excellent career with the Sûreté. Then, about ten years ago, I met a young lady." His face softened at her memory, and a wistful look came over him. He looked over towards Christine, a sad smile on his face. "She was a member of the _corps de ballet_ at the Paris Opera.10 She was the most exquisite woman I had even known, with her tip-tilted nose, forget-me-not eyes, rose-red cheeks and lily-white neck and shoulders.

"We saw each other regularly, even talked of marriage, but one day a certain Comte Philippe de Chagny came between us. The young lady was persuaded that her career would be better served if she allied herself with the de Chagny name rather than that of a mere policeman. I was not willing to give her up so easily, but the lady herself came to me one day and suggested it would be best for me not to oppose Comte Philippe." The detective, usually cool and calm, was visibly upset even after so many years. "So you see, assisting the two of you is my own way of thumbing my nose at the de Chagny family."

No names were ever mentioned, but as she listened to his story, Christine knew immediately whom Reynard d'Aubert was referring to – Justine Sorelli. She wondered if "La Sorelli" ever regretted the choice she had made, that of money and social status over love. "I'm sorry," was all she could think to say to the man.

The rest of the evening was spent in lighter conversation. When the clock struck eleven, Garron and d'Aubert said they had taken up enough of their hostess's time and would be on their way back to The Inn of the Setting Sun. Wishing all a good evening, the two men decided that on such a balmy night, they would walk back to Perros. Erik thanked them once again, carefully shaking their hands before they left.

Christine and Erik stood in the doorway, he with his arm around her waist, holding her close, and she with her arms around his neck, her head resting against his shoulder. They stood like that as they watched d'Aubert and Garron walking down the road. Erik turned to her and kissed her on the forehead. "They're good men," he said.

"Yes, they are."

They remained there for several more minutes, enjoying the peace of the countryside and the nearness of each other. As the two figures receded into the distance, Erik smiled to himself. He wished he could be present when Reynard d'Aubert found the present that had been slipped into his pocket – a particularly lustrous emerald from his days in Persia that had been among the items Christine brought back from his strongbox.

-0-0-0-

* * *

**The typical Author's Notes:**

The Inn of the Setting Sun in Perros is mentioned in Leroux's novel. (Leroux, _The Essential Phantom of the Opera, _Ch. VI, "The Enchanted Violin")

As for "…the girl with the tip-tilted nose, the forget-me-not eyes, the rose-red cheeks and the lily-white neck and shoulders…"? Actually, this is Leroux's description of Little Jammes, but who's going to know the difference! (Leroux: Chapter I)

**-0-**

Brittany is surrounded by water and Bretons gained renown for their sailing prowess. **_Soupe des Pirates_** or Pirate Soup comes from that seafaring tradition and is made with conger eel and a variety of fish, which are cooked in red wine with spices, shallots and garlic.

**-0-**

Contrary to popular belief, the idea of "free love" was not born out of the hippie movement. It goes back much further than that. The free love movement of the late 19th century viewed marriage as an institution that could trap people into unhappy lives. The movement's advocates felt marriage should be viewed as a social partnership and, if some element were missing, the spouses should each be allowed to find that element through loving more than one individual.

**-0-**

_**Le Temps**,_ ("The Time") published from April 25, 1861 to November 30, 1942, was one of Paris's most important newspapers.


	33. Darkening Shadows

_Here's something to hold you over through the holiday weekend. In the meantime, I'll get right to work on chapter 33. Happy Labor Day, everyone! And as always, thanks for stopping by and reading. Oh, and reviewing, too! --HDKingsbury_

**Chapter 32  
Darkening Shadows**

**-0-0-0-**

_Paris, the following week…  
Philippe de Chagny's townhouse_

"Will you kindly stop pacing the floor?" Philippe de Chagny snapped at his younger brother. "You're making me dizzy, circling the room like that."

Raoul had returned from his holiday in Nice earlier that week. After getting Meg settled back in at her apartment – why she could not have done this on her own, he had no idea – Raoul decided to find out how Monsieur Delacroix's "guest" was doing. The day before, he had paid a call at the sanitarium. What he learned had been disturbing to say the least. "Sorry. It's only that…well, I had a bit of distressing news yesterday."

Philippe stared at his brother from his chair, wondering what could be so distressing that it required such an expenditure of energy. At the rate Raoul was pacing, there would soon be a path worn into the carpeting. Then it would have to be replaced. He sighed and rolled his eyes. "What? Is this about your little songstress again? I thought you'd thrown her over for Mlle Giry. By the way, I meant to congratulate you on your choice, Brother. Dancers are always much more…nimble than singers." Philippe smirked as he recalled with delight the "nimbleness" of Justine Sorelli.

"No, not Christine. It's that damned fiancé of hers. He's flown!" Raoul threw his arms up in the air to emphasize his plight.

An exasperated sigh escaped from Philippe. "You're talking in riddles," he said sharply. "Sit down and tell me what is going on before this whole business gives me a headache."

Raoul was too nervous to sit, but knew better than to argue with Philippe at this point. Better to do as his brother suggested. Perhaps he would be able to concentrate if he were sitting down. "Do you remember that day we had lunch at the Café Anglais? I was telling you about this arrogant bastard insulting me, and you said, 'eliminate the competition'."

When Philippe had suggested that his brother eliminate his competition, he had been thinking more along the lines of buying the man off. The de Changys were wealthy; money was not a problem, and every man had his price. All Raoul would have had to do was find out what this man's was. As usual, his younger brother misconstrued everything. The Comte nodded, starting to get an inkling of where this was going.

"Well," continued Raoul, "I did. At least, I thought I did."

"What?" Philippe, who had been slouching in his chair up until now, partially lost in thought, bolted upright, amazed at what he had just heard. He had known his brother was up to something of late, and suspected that it involved the little singer and her fiancé. What he hadn't considered was that Raoul would actually have worked up the nerve to do anything himself. He was always waiting for someone else to pick up the pieces after him.

"Did you have this rival of yours roughed up? Did you have him threatened with bodily harm if he did not make way for you?"

"No, I didn't have him beaten up."

Philippe studied his brother's expression. If he weren't mistaken, it appeared as though Raoul was actually pouting. If he didn't have his opponent beaten, then what did he do? This was getting more interesting by the minute. "Do you …kill the man?"

"No," Raoul spat, insulted that he brother would think him that uncouth. "No, I didn't kill him."

"Ah! You had another person do it for you? And now the assassin wants more money?"

Raoul shook his head. "I didn't have him beaten, nor did I have him killed. I had him…committed."

Laughter erupted from Philippe. "You had the man committed?" he said incredulously, slapping his knees. "As in, committed to a lunatic asylum? Just like that?"

"I hired a man who works for Delacroix, the one you said did several odd jobs for you in the past. He and a couple other men picked up this…this Erik fellow," it galled Raoul to even give the man a name, "and had him locked up in the sanitarium." He looked over his brother. "What? Why are you staring at me like that? The man's a menace." By this time, he was practically whining.

"To whom? You?" Philippe sighed, rubbing his forehead in an attempt to ward off the headache that threatened to explode as he regrouped his thoughts. "All right, you had a man kidnapped and thrown into a lunatic asylum because he came between you and the Daaé girl. Oh, excuse me. Because he is a public menace. Then, after you've got him locked up, you toss aside the young singer for the ballet dancer. Raoul, what the hell were you thinking?"

"I eliminated the competition," the young man shouted back angrily, perturbed at his brother's lack of understanding or support.

"And you had this done…why? Please, refresh my memory."

"He insulted me!" Raoul growled.

Philippe only rolled his eyes at such simplistic thinking. He was beginning to wonder if Raoul was perhaps was suffering some sort of diminished capacity that interfered with his ability to think logically. "And what were you planning on doing next? Do you imagine that this man is going to sit patiently in his cell and behave himself? Maybe twiddle his thumbs? Weave a basket or something? Have you considered the possibility that he has already informed the staff of the truth behind how he happened to be there?"

"I…I paid Delacroix to…to look the other way," Raoul stuttered, nervous under his brother's barrage of questions. "The other man, Fournier, assured me that no one would listen to an inmate, especially one judged to be criminally insane."

"I see; you're dealing with Fournier and Delacroix. Oh, this is getting better and better," Philippe said in disgust, his suspicions regarding Raoul's diminished capacity growing with every minute.

"Besides, who's going to believe the word of a deformed madman over that of a de Chagny?"

Philippe had to admit that Raoul had a point. "I'm afraid I still don't understand your problem. Would you kindly elucidate?"

Raoul jumped up from his chair and began pacing again. "He's gone," he shouted almost hysterically. "Erik is gone. I went to the sanitarium Monday to see Delacroix."

"You mean you went there to gloat. Why did you wait this long to visit your 'patient'? I would have thought you'd have already been there to enjoy your triumph, lording it over your disposed enemy as quickly as possible."

Raoul was coming to hate his brother's sarcasm, the way Philippe kept belittling everything he did, and shot his brother another angry look. "I thought it best to distance myself from the situation for a while. That's why I took Meg to Nice with me for a few weeks."

"And here I thought you took her because she's a randy wench. Amazing that she was excused from her duties on the stage, but I suppose that for the right amount of money…"

Raoul glared at Philippe. "For what I donate to the opera, they can well afford to excuse Mlle Giry for a few weeks."

A wry smile spread across the Comte's lips. "Let's get back to the business at hand. What happened to your rival?"

"Delacroix told me that an inspector of the Sûreté came almost three weeks ago and took custody of him. Erik was supposed to be charged with the murder of Joseph Buquet and taken before the magistrates to determine if he was competent to stand trial."

The Comte laughed an unpleasant laugh. "You say that your rival is in police custody, to be charged with murder. Then why are you upset? Let the police take care of him for you. You can always buy their cooperation as well."

"You still don't understand. Delacroix told me there were two people who came to claim Erik. One was a doctor named Molyneux. I've checked all the Paris directories and there is no one by that name. The other – the inspector – said his name was Erique Claudin. I went to police headquarters, and they told me there was no such person as this Inspector Claudin."

Philippe let out a howl. "Erique Claudin? That's the name he gave?" The Comte could not stop laughing and had to wipe away the tears from his eyes.

"What is so damned funny, Philippe!"

"Your inspector. He was obviously a fake. Erique Claudin was a madman, a murderer. It was quite a scandal when it happened, oh…when was it? About 10 years ago? Yes, about the time I met Justine. Claudin was a musician, a violinist in the orchestra at the Paris Opera. He'd written a concerto and took it to a publisher by the name of Pleyel. The publisher, it seems, was more interested in showing his etchings to a female assistant than he was in publishing the music of an unknown composer. Claudin, on the other hand, thought Pleyel was trying to steal his concerto and claim it as his own. He snapped. Went insane with rage and murdered the publisher. The assistant witnessed the murder and threw a pan of etching acid in Claudin's face. That's how they were able to track him down, by following the howls of pain. He was found guilty, of course. Public execution. Quite a scandal."

"Well? What should I do? I'm sure that by now, Erik knows I'm responsible for what was done to him. He will hunt me down. He'll probably kill me!"

Philippe shrugged as if such a threat to his younger brother's life was of little consequence. "You got yourself into this bloody mess. Now it's up to you to clean it up."

"You…you mean, you're not going to help me?"

"Raoul," he said, glaring fiercely at his brother, "it's time you grew up."

Comte Philippe de Chagny remained seated and calmly watched Raoul storm out of the room, slamming the door loudly behind him. Secretly, he was worried about a possible scandal, and privately considered whether he would have to send his own henchmen after this madman, this Erik, if only to get rid of the problem before it became common gossip. But no, he decided; it was time Raoul learned a lesson, and solved his own problems.

-0-0-0-

I had considered calling this chapter "Dark Shadows" but didn't want anyone to mistakenly get the idea that Barnabas Collins was going to make a guest appearance!


	34. Memories Bitter and Sweet, pt 1

This is a very long chapter, and for that reason I am posting it in two parts. -HD

**Chapter 33  
****Memories Bitter and Sweet**

**Part 1**

**-0-0-0-**

_Perros  
__A month after Erik's rescue_

Life in the granite cottage outside the hamlet of Perros-Guirec was settling into a contented and agreeable way of life for Erik. Until the problem of Raoul de Chagny was resolved, he knew it was fruitless to even consider returning to Paris, which, he was surprised to discover, did not hold the allure for him that it once did. Perhaps that was because all he needed these days was right here in this house. True to his word, whenever it was just the three of them – himself, Christine and Mamma – Erik did not hide his disfigurement behind a mask. In fact, he was discovering just how pleasurable it was not to have the leather always rubbing against his skin.

"Christine, could you hand me that tuning fork?" This morning, Erik was sitting at the piano, testing the instrument and hoping all that was required was a simple tuning. Spread out on the table were tools Anatole had picked up for him last week – several rubber tuning wedges often referred to as "mutes," a tuning hammer which was actually a specialized wrench used to turn the string pins, and a tuning fork.

Erik smiled to himself as he thought about the baritone. This was yet another aspect of his life that was now different – these days he actually looked forward to Anatole's visits. Erik's knowledge of music in all its shapes and forms was no surprise to Christine, but Garron was duly impressed. Though Erik would still don his mask when the other man was present, the two often talked for hours about composition, harmony, melody, the latest trends and the most talked-about composers.

As he pressed down on the keys, Erik held his breath, worried that the action might need regulating. If the action were bad, that would present a whole new set of problems, and he would need a lot more tools, such as spring clamps, screw clamps and the like. Ah, but that was not the case. It seemed Mamma had done a splendid job of keeping the house at just the right humidity – not too wet, not too dry. Once the piano was tuned, it would be as good as new. It was still going to be a slow process, though, with each octave taking at least twenty minutes to tune.

Christine sat on the sofa watching him, having given up suggesting that he might want to wait another week or two and make sure his fingers were well enough before starting a project such as this. But Erik insisted that his hands were perfectly fine, (Christine snorted, not believing him) and that he was perfectly capable of undertaking this task. Besides, he argued, if he didn't use his fingers he would end up with an even more serious problem – they would heal stiff and he would be unable to play the piano in the future. So Christine gave up, accepting that Erik knew what he was talking about, and sat quietly in the background, not wishing to interrupt his concentration as he went to work.

Two hours later, he was all grins as he sat before the newly tuned piano and, flexing his fingers, started playing several selections from Robert Schumann's _Kinderszenen_.

-0-

The last notes faded away. Christine rose from the sofa and walked over to the piano bench, settling in next to him while flashing her most disarming smile.

"It's such a lovely day, so balmy for April that I was wondering if you would like to take a walk."

He raised an eyebrow, trying to discern an ulterior motive behind her suggestion. She chose to ignore the look.

"This part of the Breton coast is beautiful, and we're only about twenty minutes' walk from the beach. A day this warm in early April is rare. It would be a shame to waste it all indoors." She sidled closer. "Fresh air and walks along the shore can to wonders for restoring one's strength." She paused, sliding even closer. "They can also be…very romantic."

Erik cracked a smile. "I believe I'm up to the challenge."

"Good. I'll go out in the kitchen and see if there isn't something we can talk along to eat. Nothing too heavy, though. Oh, and we'll need a blanket to sit on."

"I'll bring one from my room. I have to go up there anyway to get my mask."

"If you must." She sighed, having hoped he would not wear it. "You know, there won't be many people where we're going."

"Christine, I…"

But she didn't allow him to finish. "Oh, very well," she said. "As long as you're going upstairs, will you bring down one of my shawls? It may be warm outside now, but it's usually much cooler near the water."

"Where shall I find a shawl? Do you have more than one?"

"Look in the armoire." She took hold of the fabric of her skirt and held it out, twisting from one side to the other, flaring her skirt like a little girl showing off her new dress. "Bring whichever one you think would go best with what I'm wearing." She batted her eyelashes as she smiled.

Erik rolled his eyes and headed up the steps.

-0-

They left the house, hands entwined. Erik had a woolen blanket draped over his free arm, while Christine held on to the crocheted go-to-market bag that was now filled with a light lunch. When she had gone to the kitchen and told Mamma their plans for the afternoon, the woman only said, with a twinkle in her eye, "Don't hurry back too soon."

As they walked, Christine lifted his hand out in front of her, as if inspecting it. "You know, you really should keep those fingers wrapped. They're not fully mended."

Erik scoffed. "They're fine. Didn't you hear me playing the piano earlier?"

"Yes, and that's why you need to be gentle with them." She brought his hand to her lips, and kissed each finger. "These hands are very special to me."

"And to me as well." The touch of her lips upon his fingers sent ripples of pleasure through his body. "You enjoy playing the temptress, Mademoiselle."

"And you enjoy playing the perfect gentleman," she said teasingly. "Hmmm…what must I do to break down that barrier?"

An enigmatic smile was his only reply as he considered what she might try next.

They made their way along a well-worn path that followed the pink granite outcroppings, passing a succession of deformed and water-sculpted rocks, wild and rugged, decorated with splashes of yellow gorse and purple heather. Turning away from the main road, they took a dirt path to the pine forest near the beach of Trestaou. From there they would head to the harbor at Ploumanc'h, both of which were within a few kilometers from Mamma's house.

Christine discreetly made sure their pace wasn't too fast, stopping periodically to point out an interesting rock formation or a bird's song. She knew Erik would not bring the subject up, but his ribs were still tender and if he exerted himself too much, breathing could become painful. That would never do. This to be a pleasant afternoon, one that would leave sweet memories for them both.

In the trees and among the rocks were stonechats and warblers, while a few pug moths flitted among the spring-blooming flora. As they passed one of the flowering bushes, Christine stooped to pick a sprig of the yellow blooms. "When gorse is out of blossom, kissing's out of fashion," she said. Pinching off another small cluster, she stuck it in her loose, flowing hair. She danced around Erik while modeling her new decoration as if it were an expensive bonnet, lauging as she did.

Erik had to admit to himself that she never looked lovelier, more enticing, than now – away from the illusion and artifice of the stage. Out here in the country, she looked more like a playful, mischievous wood sprite than a diva, daring him to catch her. He reached out and took hold of her hands, bringing her close. He brushed his fingertips over the flowers, letting his hand rest gently upon her shoulder. "I never heard that before. What does it mean?"

"It's an old country saying. When the gorse is out of blossom, there's no kissing allowed. I believe it has to do with the fact that the flowers bloom in the spring, when love blooms, too. I think we should take advantage of the situation. I mean, we have the gorse blooming; it's a warm spring day. The birds are singing; the sky is blue. You and I are here…alone." The last word was whispered into his ear as she wound her arms around his neck and pulled his face to hers.

"You mean, like…this?" He nuzzled her neck, trailing soft, feather-light kisses along its tender curve. His hands found their way to her hips, caressing her, adoring her, pulling her closer so that her breasts pressed against his chest. His mouth found hers; their lips parted as their kisses became more fervent. "I'm glad you told me the gorse is blooming," he finally managed to say.

"And I'm thankful you didn't listen to me and tape up your fingers."

Their lips met again, then Erik broke off their kiss.

"Don't stop," Christine said breathlessly.

"If we don't stop now, we never will."

"Would that be such a bad thing?" she said, twining her fingers through his hair.

"Not bad, just…" He fumbled, trying to explain find the right words so as not to hurt her feelings.

"It's just that you want to wait till our wedding night, isn't it?" She sighed, dreaming of that happy day. "Very well, but don't blame me for trying."

Arm in arm, they resumed their walk.

-0-

They stopped to rest under the pine trees at Trestraou. Erik spread out the blanket and they sat in the shade, munching on the sandwiches Mamma had packed for them. As they sat together, Christine told Erik the story of an ancient miracle still celebrated in Perros.

"Many centuries ago, the Marquis de Barac'h was returning from England. He was approaching the _sept ile_, the seven islands just off the coast here, when his ship encountered a terrible fog. It was so thick that the sailors could not see their hands in front of their faces. The sailors could do nothing as the current carried their vessel straight towards the rocks. All on board were certain their ship would be crushed and that they would drown.

"The marquis went down on his knees and prayed to the Virgin, pleading with her to save him and his crew. If she answered his prayer, he promised he would build her a chapel. At that moment, a beam of sunlight broke through the clouds. It shone down on the rocks of Ploumanac'h harbor and guided them to the shore and to safety. Later, in 1455, the marquis kept his promise and built the most beautiful chapel out of pink granite. It was named _Notre-Dame de la Clarté_ – Our Lady of the Light.

"Every summer the village celebrates the miracle with a _pardon_, a religious procession. It begins on the evening of 14th of August with a bonfire and a torchlight procession to the chapel that concludes with a mass. The following day, more masses are celebrated and in the afternoon, there is another procession. Statues of the Virgin and other saints, along with small boats, are carried up to the church to be blessed." She waited for him to say something, then prompted him when he didn't. "Is it not beautiful story?"

"Perhaps," he said smirking, deliberately being contrary, "but I confess that I've always wondered about stories that tell of people successfully bargaining with God. 'Save me, and I'll build a church!' they always plead. And God actually listens to them and answers their entreaty." He shook his head thoughtfully. "If only it were that easy."

The last remark was said more to himself than to Christine, but she understood that he was thinking about his own situation. She wondered how many times he prayed to God to give him a normal face, how many times he must have felt abandoned by both God and man. No, this wasn't the time to dwell upon the past and such unhappy thoughts. "I hope you will come with me to the chapel of Notre Dame de la Clarté one day," she finally said. "It's the church I want to be married in."

He had no use for churches, but if it would please Christine, he would go this once.

-0-

After eating, they continued their exploration of the countryside. "We're coming up to the harbor of Ploumanac'h," Christine cried out excitedly. "Look! Over there's the light house." She pointed to a tower perched atop a bluff. "And over there is the beach. If the tide's low enough, we can walk out to the Oratory of St. Guirec."

"St. Guirec? The one the town's named for?"

"Yes. Look there," she said, pointing to an L-shaped stone building on the slope overlooking the beach. "That's the chapel of St. Guirec. All those bushes are hydrangeas. Come summer, their pink and lavender and blue blossoms will color the countryside. And that," she pointed to a structure rising from a rock base on the pink-and-gold beach, "is the oratory that shelters the statue of St. Guirec. He is very special around here. He was a Welsh monk who came here to Armorica in the 6th century. If the legends are to be believed, he arrived in a granite trough, and is said to have landed here, on this shore. He founded the parish of Perros-Guirec, building a monastery nearby and Christianizing this region. He later became a bishop."

"Busy man," he mumbled.

The tide was still out, and they walked on the beach. There in front of them was the oratory – a small chapel open on three sides and facing out to sea. Erik studied the structure, judging it to be quite old. The curve of the ceiling vault suggested the Romanesque style, putting the date of its original construction sometime in the middle ages, perhaps the 14th century. Both the oratory and the statue of St. Guirec himself had seen better days, the weather and the sea both taking their toll, and the two stone columns in front showed signs of having been repaired many times. He stepped up on the rock base and approached the life-sized statue for a closer look.

The effigy was typical for its type, a standing man wearing ecclesiastical robes and a bishop's mitre and holding a shepherd's staff in his left hand, his right hand raised as if giving a blessing. Something about the figure's face, however, caught Erik's attention. There seemed to be something wrong with the good bishop's nose. Then he realized what it was. The nose was nearly worn away, in far worse condition than the rest of the statue, which obviously received good care from the locals.

As he was standing in front of the statue, Christine stepped forward and took a pin from her hair. Walking up to the saint, she proceeded to stick the pin in the saint's almost non-existent nose. Pleased with what she had just done, she clapped her hands together and exclaimed, "Oh good! It's staying put."

Erik stared at her, trying to comprehend her strange behavior. "I don't know if I want to ask what that is all about. Do you always go about desecrating images of holy men?"

"I'm not desecrating it. It's a custom," she explained. "If a girl puts a pin into the statue's nose and it doesn't fall out through a full tidal cycle, then she will be married within the year."

He studied the saint's disfigured nose, now with a pin sticking out of it, and then rubbed his own. He turned to her, skepticism in the statue's powers written all over his face. "Do you do this all the time?"

She returned to his side and looped her arm through his. "Ever since I met you, I do it every chance I get," she said and, on tip-toes, kissed him on _his_ nose.

-0-0-0-

**Author's Notes:**

I have had a lot of fun scouring the web for information about Perros-Guirec. All the places I mentioned – Trestaou, the lighthouse, Ploumanac'h, and the Oratory and Chapel of St. Guirec are real. As for St. Guirec himself, I found that his name is spelled a multitude of ways -- Guevrock, Guévroc, Gueroc, Kerric, Kirec, Kirio and similar variants. He was a 6th century Welsh monk or abbot or bishop (take your choice) who followed Saint Tadwal (also of assorted spellings, such as Tugdual) across the English Channel in a granite trough (!) and evangelized the coast of Brittany. He landed at Ploumanc'h and helped found the parish of Perros-Guirec. He succeeded Tadwal as abbot of Loc-Kirec, and also helped Saint Paul of León in the rule of the diocese (Benedictines). At Ploumanac'h (the northern tip of Brittany, part of the Perros-Guirec district) is the seaside oratory of Saint Guirec. As for the story about girls putting a pin into the statue's nose? It's real; I didn't make this up.

As for the name **Armorica**, it is the ancient Latin name for Brittany. It can still be found in the French name for the region, _Cotes d'Armor_.


	35. Memories Bitter and Sweet, pt 2

I know you're out there reading, but for some reason the reviews are not getting posted, nor am I able to reply to them. So until the site administrators get this problem solved, let me just thank everyone right here. Also, I meant to post Part 2 yesterday...but life got in the way. So here you are. **Warning:** Get your hankies out! -- HD

**Chapter 33  
****Memories Bitter and Sweet**

**Part 2**

**-0-0-0-**

Erik was exhausted and out of breath, his lungs burning from the exertion. Perspiration beaded on his forehead, and he had an intense desire to remove his mask and wipe his face. It seemed he wasn't as strong as he had led Christine to believe.

"Do you mind if we stop here and rest?" he asked, pointing to St. Guirec's chapel. He wasn't sure why he suggested that building. It certainly was not that he was a religious man by any stretch of the imagination. If anything, he resented God, resented the fact that the Almighty Father had sent him into the world with a face others detested, and then abandoned him. Erik thought of those sailors in the fog bank, praying to the Virgin Mary. Hadn't he prayed when he was younger? Hadn't he pleaded with God – any God who would listen to him? But the Deity had turned a deaf ear to his suffering, and all this talk about miracles were rekindling memories he had hoped never to think of again.

"I'm sorry, Erik. I shouldn't have had you walking so much." She hung on to his arm as they walked up the gentle grass-covered slope that took them from the sandy beach to the chapel. There were numerous rocky ledges around the small 14th-century building, and they chose one of them to sit on.

He sat glumly, squeezing his eyes tight as he tried to recapture the lightheartedness from earlier in the day. He held his chest and tried to understand why these thoughts were plaguing him now? But he already knew the answer – he was nothing but a monster pretending to be a man. Would a man, a good man, have done the things he had done in his life? He was a fraud, a cheat. He had wanted Christine to believe in him, yet he could not even believe in himself. He placed his elbows on his knees and rested his forehead on the palms of his hands, trying desperately to drive away the demons.

"Are you all right?"

He looked up, startled to find Christine was sitting next to him. He had been so absorbed with his own gloomy thoughts that he had forgotten where he was…and with whom.

"You look troubled," she said, concern written upon her face. "I sometimes forget that you're still not completely recovered from your ordeal."

"What happened to me was no more than I deserved," he said, dejectedly.

She placed her hand on his forehead.

"What are you doing?"

"I'm checking to see if you have a fever. Erik, whatever made you say such a thing? Nobody deserves to be treated the way you were."

"I've misled you, Christine," he said as he drew in a ragged breath. "I've lied to you."

They sat on the granite boulder, looking out at the oratory and the ocean. It was late afternoon, and the sun was warm and golden. The beach was empty, rather surprising for such a balmy spring day. The only sounds to be heard were the waves lapping upon the sands, and the cries of sea birds circling overhead.

"Lied? About what?"

"My past. I…I haven't told you everything and that has been troubling me of late. You've always been straightforward about everything, while I've been reticent to disclose my past to you."

She reached over to him and rubbed his upper arm. "Whatever happened in the past is just that – the past," she said, wanting to ease his mind.

He shook his head. When he spoke again, it was with a voice that sounded as if it were coming from beyond the grave – devoid of feeling and emotion. "A lie by omission is still that – a lie. I have asked you to accept me, yet over and over, I have failed to be completely honest with you, to tell you what it is I am asking you to accept." He stopped, and stared off in the distance.

Christine looked at his face and saw that the color had gone out of it. His eyes were vacant as he looked out past the waves that gently lapped the shore. Whatever he was seeing, it was not the Breton coast. In his mind, he was someplace else, a place filled with pain. Seeing him suffering like this tore her apart. It was worse than when he had been sick and unconscious. Then she knew what to do. But this? She had never been forced to deal with a situation such as this. All she could think to do was be patient and listen. "Then tell me," she said, "what it is that you feel I should know."

Reining in his thoughts, he inhaled deeply before continuing. "I purposely withheld certain details from you. That was wrong, and I beg your forgiveness, but I am afraid that once you know the truth, you will only despise me. I have done things, Christine. Terrible things. Things that haunt me still, after all these years."

He clenched and unclenched his hands as he spoke. Baring his soul to her would be the hardest thing he had ever done. He did not know if he had the strength to continue, but knew that he must. "I can't keep hiding from myself. If I'm to break free of my past, I need to be as honest and accept the consequences of my actions."

He looked down as he felt her take his hand in hers. Even now, she was trying to imbue him with her strength, her courage. It was so like her to make this small gesture of unconditional love. He hoped that once she knew the truth, she would retain some feelings for him...but he doubted it.

"It's perhaps best if I started from the beginning. I once told you about my parents, and how I ran away from home."

Christine nodded, recalling their picnic on the opera house roof. "Yes, I remember," she said softly.

"After running away, I learned to live by my wits. For many months I did whatever was necessary to survive – lie, cheat, steal, beg. After wandering the countryside alone for more than a year, I encountered a troupe of gypsies who traveled from town to town, earning their way as entertainers. Among their attractions was a freak show."

At the words "freak show," Christine inhaled sharply. Erik glanced over at her, but continued his narrative.

"This was something I had never seen in my life. I would visit the performers after the dark, when the shows were over. I asked them what it was like…to do what they did. We talked on several occasions, and they invited me to join them. They were an assortment of human oddities, and among these people, I felt a kind of kinship. They at least understood what it was to be an outcast. That was when I began my education in earnest.

"I already had a natural talent for voice and ventriloquism. These people taught me how to perfect and exploit these skills. They also taught me various feats of legerdemain and prestidigitation, and found I had a natural flare for showmanship. I used these newfound talents, along with my voice, to perform as 'The Living Corpse.' Later, after I learned how to play the violin, I added more music to my routine. People came from far and wide to see and hear me, amazed that something as ugly as I could make such beautiful music.

"The gypsies tolerated me because I brought in money, but they were a superstitious lot, and over time came to fear me as my reputation grew. I was smarter, more intelligent than they were, and they knew it. In spite of that, I continued to be relegated to performing as a sideshow oddity, all because of this _face_ I was born with. I grew to despise them as much as they despised me."

Christine said nothing, but felt her stomach clench at the bitterness she heard in his voice, and at the thought of Erik having to display himself in such a manner. She remained silent, instinctively understanding that he did not need her to say anything, only to listen, knowing instinctively that she was the first person to ever hear his story. She doubted she could have stopped him, anyway; the words seem to come from his mouth of their own volition.

"The only ones who showed any tolerance towards me were the other…freaks." The last word came out more as a strangled sound. "They were decent to me. They made sure I knew how to read and calculate, so that I wouldn't be cheated when it came time to collect my earnings. I was a fast learner, and once I knew how to read, I used all my spare coins to purchase books. It didn't matter what kind they were so long as they were something I could read. I also discovered that I could pick up languages with very little effort. This was especially helpful when we left France and traveled the continent.

"I stayed with the troupe for a couple of years. Eventually, I began making plans to leave them, as I had no wish to remain a sideshow performer forever. I still had dreams of living a normal life, of finding someone who would accept me for myself. For that reason, I worked hard to further my education.

"Eventually I saved enough money so that I could live comfortably without performing. After saying goodbye to the fair, I spent several years studying. I went from city to city, but was always dismayed to learn that I could not attend classes outright; I was informed that my appearance would distract the other students. Fortunately, there were times when, for the right price, I was permitted to observe lectures and demonstrations. Music and architecture especially fascinated me, and I concentrated all my efforts in those two fields in the hopes that one day apply I would be able to apply my newly acquired skills in a true occupation. Perhaps then, people would overlook my face and judge me by my work instead. But that was only wishful thinking on my part, and I became more bitter than ever.

"Disenchanted, I returned to performing and formed my own traveling show. I went further and further east. Life on the road was a rough, often fraught with danger and violence. I could depend on no one for aid or assistance, and became adept at taking care of myself. My journeys took me to the great Makarievfair in Nizhny Novgorod. Literally thousands attended the fair each year, which attracted foreign merchants, many coming from as far away as India, Iran, and Central Asia.

"My shows were always sold out, and I amassed a vast personal fortune. My one solace was the city's opera house. Inside its walls, I could escape the brutal reality of my appearance by losing myself in the music. But in the end I found no pleasure in the Russian city, as I was still looked upon not as a person, but as a curiosity. I later learned that one of the traveling merchants who had seen me perform took back with him stories of my unique talents to the palace of the Shah in Mazendaran. A few months later, I received an invitation to attend the court. Having nothing to tie me to Russia, I left for Persia."

Erik stopped. This was the most painful part of his story. He looked over at Christine.

"If you'd rather not continue, I'd understand," she said.

He shook his head. "No, I must tell you everything." Then he resumed his story, his voice barely above a whisper while his mind passed back through time.

"The Shah was suitably impressed with my many talents, and I was made welcome. I went about making myself indispensable, and came to enjoy a period of time where my word was law. Among the things that most impressed the Shah were my abilities as a designer and engineer, and soon I was appointed court architect. I built for his majesty a palace that was designed on the principle of a trick box, the sort of palace a magician might imagine. It was so ingenious that his majesty could walk about everywhere in it without being seen, and could disappear without anyone knowing how the trick was done.

"As my influence grew, I allowed myself to become embroiled in court politics, and found myself serving as a mercenary for the Shah. I calmly carried out several important political assassinations during the fight against the emir of Afghanistan, who was at war with the empire."

Erik's hands were shaking by now, and he looked down at them as if expecting to find the blood of his victims still on them. He shuddered and swallowed hard, then went on.

"It was easy to view my victims as being less than human. Humankind had shown me nothing but contempt and disdain. Why should I view them any differently? I reveled in this new power, and convinced myself that the acts I perpetrated were justifiable. I deluded myself into believing that I was making the world a better place, that these people were undeserving of pity or compassion. I'm not proud of what I did. It was the darkest period of my life, but at the time, I wasn't troubled by it." There was a long pause. "That came later, when I met an elder court official named Aref who helped me to see past the illusions I had surrounded myself with.

"Aref was a wise man. He had spent many years at court, always managing to walk that tight rope between factions and political upheavals, and avoided being swept up into its numerous plots. Though I wielded great power at that time, he never showed any fear of me. Instead of cowering when I entered a room as others did, Aref would look me straight in the eye and speak to me as if we were equals. He intrigued me, and over the next few months, we spent many long evenings discussing Life, the Universe, and other esoteric topics. I bristled one night when he suggested that I could rise above the ignominy of my existence, yet before I left his land, I came to believe him. He helped me see that what I was doing was not carrying out justice, but implementing the cruel whims of weak men, and that I was the weakest of them all. There was one poem in particular he recited to me…

_You could become a victorious horseman  
And carry your heart through this world  
Like a Life-Giving Sun_

"This was when I came to understand that I was worse than any freak of nature with a misshapen face. I saw at last what I had become – a monster with no conscience, no heart. My false world came crashing down upon me, and I sickened at what I had become, at the things I had done. I saw things I had never noticed before, such as the look in a dying man's eyes. My dreams were troubled and I could no longer sleep. At night, I heard the cries of children as they called out to fathers who would never answer, men I had helped send to the afterlife.

"I knew then that my usefulness to the Shah had come to an end. The lines were no longer black and white. I began seeing shades of grey, and for the first time in my life, I felt shame and remorse. I felt…_I felt!" _he cried out. Images of blood and death ripped through his mind, nearly overpowering him, but Erik went on.

"That was when I made up my mind to leave Persia and my pitiful excuse of an existence. But nothing was ever easy. I came to Aref and asked for his help, and he willingly agreed. I never knew what he saw in me during those years, why he thought I was worth saving. But he had faith in me, and in the end, he paid dearly for that faith. Unfortunately for us, the Shah learned of my change of heart. I was placed under arrest and imprisoned. His majesty jealously feared that if I were allowed to leave, I would build a similar magical palace for his enemies. He commanded that my eyes be plucked out."

Christine caught her breath, but Erik could not hear her. Memories knifed through his mind, leaving him deaf and blind to peaceful Breton countryside.

"While I was rotting away in prison that it occurred to the Shah that even if I was blind, I could still build another such incredible palace. As long as I lived, I would always know the secrets of his special palace, and he felt threatened by my knowledge. I was subjected to brutal treatment that made what happened to me in the sanitarium look mild by comparison. But torture wasn't enough. He then decided that I was to be put to death, along with all the laborers who had worked under me. It was to be a public execution and was to include a slow and agonizing death.

"I shall never know if it was deliberate or not, but the Shah put Aref in charge of carrying out the execution order. Instead of death, however, Aref provided me with a means of escape. But his plans were found out, forcing him to throw his lot in with mine. As we were making our way to freedom, the alarm was sounded and we found ourselves being pursued. Even today, it is painful to recall what happened next. An impasse had been reached where only one of us could make it out alive. Aref insisted that I be the one who lived. He said it was kismet – fate. He was an old man whose time had come, while I was young and could still make something worthwhile out of my life. His last gifts to me were a bag of jewels that would help me buy my freedom…and his life."

Tears fell silently down Erik's cheeks as he saw again Aref being run through by their pursuers, the faint look of satisfaction on the old man's lips as he breathed his last.

"I escaped, and thought to go to Constantinople, but I had grown tired of living on the run. After years of being numb and insensitive to the suffering I had caused, I now felt…_something_. Maybe it was the first stirrings of humanity; I don't know. I only knew that I now understood at least a little of compassion and sacrifice. Aref had believed in me to such an extent that he had willingly laid down his life so that I might live.

"Thanks to his gift, I had the means to travel in comfort. Returning to Nizhny Novgorod, I collected the moneys I had left there for safe keeping and decided to return to France and see if there was some way I could come to terms with my parents." There was another long pause. "Upon my return, I learned that both were dead. Again, I was foiled by forces beyond my control. Bereft of any kind of reconciliation with my father and mother, I came to Paris. I threw myself into work, and put my skills as a builder and architect to use. I learned of Charles Garnier's plans for the new opera house, and contacted him. You…you know the rest, how I helped with its construction. But when it was finished, I still felt empty, wandering its halls, the shell of a man. It wasn't until I heard you sing that I finally felt I had a soul…"

There was nothing more to say. Overcome with exhaustion, Erik sat cradling his head between his hands. He had told her the worst of his secrets, exposed himself as a worthless, insignificant man. No, he wasn't a man. He was less than a man. He was an animal, a rabid animal. Certain now that she would leave him, he gave up on holding back the tears. It would have been better for all if he had simply accepted his fate in Persia, and faced death with a small ration of dignity. He had no dignity left now; only pain. A dam broke inside him, and all the tumultuous emotions he had been keeping at bay broke loose. Heavy sobs wracked his body and he moaned like a wounded animal.

Christine had been distraught at hearing this awful confession. She had done her best to remain silent during his discourse, speaking only when absolutely necessary. She attempted to equate this man she had known for the past two years with the other person he had been describing.

She had seen his anger firsthand the night of the _bal masqué_, but that was neither cold-blooded nor premeditated. Raoul's actions had forced Erik to respond the way he did, defending himself…and her. She sat watching Erik with awe, knowing that these were not the actions a heartless, remorseless monster. Whatever he had been in the past, he had changed – that Erik no longer existed. Sitting under the blue Breton sky, she understood that none of what he had said altered the fact that she loved him, flaws and all. Gathering him into her arms, she tucked his head against her breast and wept with him, rocking him in her arms. "Poor Erik," she said, over and over, kissing his head. "Poor, unhappy Erik."

They wept together. Erik felt her tears coursing down his forehead, hot and sweet. They flowed under his mask, uniting with the tears in his own eyes, and flowing all the way to his mouth. He took off his mask so as not to lose a single one. Time ceased to have any meaning as they sat together in the shadow of the chapel. At last, Erik gathered what self-worth he could still muster and raised his head, looking into her tear-stained face.

"Is it possible that you still care for me," he asked in a voice so soft that it was almost a whisper.

"I'm not sure I can find the proper words, but I believe you when you say that you are a different man than you were in Persia. I am in no position to judge you for what you did in the past, but I do know this – people can change. Over the centuries, many men have done as you did – lived as mercenaries, soldiers of fortune, assassins – and later turned their backs on such an existence. Some found redemption through religion, some through love. All I know is that I love you, and believe in you. I shall leave judgment to a higher authority."

Erik reached out to her, and brushed the tears away from her face. "You have given me all the happiness in the world."

She took her fingers and combed back his mussed up hair. "Why don't we go inside St. Guirec's chapel? It's quiet in there, tranquil. I know you're not comfortable entering a church, but I would like to go in…to pray. It would mean a great deal to me if you were there, by my side. You don't have to do anything. You don't have to do anything but sit beside me."

He nodded, and they got up. Christine pulled her shawl over her head. Passing the stone fence that surrounded the building, they entered the chapel, finding it empty. Inside its medieval walls, it was dark and cool, with wooden pews waiting for worshipers. Next to the entrance was the font of holy water. Christine dipped her fingers and crossed herself. As they passed the tabernacle, she genuflected in reverence, then went over to one of the pews, inviting Erik to sit next to her. Ill at ease with the rituals, Erik kept his head bowed out of respect for Christine. With hands folded, she closed her eyes and prayed. She prayed, not for herself, but for Erik, prayed that he might one day find the peace of mind he so desperately sought.

No words were spoken, but it was not an awkward silence. Christine allowed the chapel's calmness envelop her with its serenity. A few minutes later, her prayers concluded, she opened her eyes and glanced over at Erik. What she saw pleased her, eased her aching heart – his eyes were closed, his head bowed. Whether he was praying or simply thinking, she did not know. All she cared about was the look of peace on his unmasked face. That was all that mattered. She looked up at the altar, her eyes lighting upon the statue of Bishop Guirec, and thanked the holy man for blessing them with another miracle.

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**More Author's Notes:**

Leroux mentions Nizhny Novgorod when he gives Erik's background at the end of his novel. I couldn't resist including it in mine as well. Nizhny Novgorod is the fourth largest city of Russia, ranking after Moscow, St. Petersburg, and Novosibirsk. Population: 1,311,252 (2002 Census). It is the economic and cultural center of the vast Volga-Vyatka economic region, and also the administrative center of Nizhny Novgorod Oblast and Volga Federal District. From 1932 to 1990 the city was known as Gorky after the writer Maxim Gorky.

The Makariev fair was a fair in Russia held annually every July near Makariev Monastery on the left bank of the Volga River from the mid-16th century to 1816. Following a massive fire in 1816, it was moved to Nizhny Novgorod. This fair was a commerce center to sell up to half the total production of goods in Russia. The fair ceased after the Bolshevik Revolution, but the building of the trade centre was rebuilt in 1991 and today it is gaining popularity as it houses many events and exhibitions.

This is the fair Erik would have been performing at!

-0-

Mazandaran is also mentioned in Leroux (haven't we all dreamed of those rosy hours in Mazandaran?). It is a province in northern Iran, bordering the Caspian (Mazandaran) Sea in the north. Mazandaran was part of the Persian province of Hyrcania. It had been historically known as Tabaristan prior to 1596.

And as I like my characters' names to mean something, Aref is a Persian/Iranian name meaning wise, intelligent. I thought that someone who would befriend Erik would be both – wise and intelligent.

The poem I quoted is from "Like a Life-Giving Sun," by Khwajeh Shams al-Din Muhammad Hafez-e Shirazi (also spelled Hafiz), a Persian mystic and poet. He was born sometime between the years 1310-1337 in Shiraz , Persia (Iran), son of a certain Baha-ud-Din. His lyrical poems, _ghazals_ are noted for their beauty and bring to fruition the love, mysticism, and early Sufi themes that had long pervaded Persian poetry. "Like a Life-Giving Sun," from The Gift, Poems by Hafiz, the Great Sufi Master, translated by Daniel Ladinsky. Penguin Books, 1999.

-0-

And I'm sure you all noticed where I "borrowed" from Leroux…After all, the story is called "Variations on a Theme of Leroux."


	36. Memories Bitter and Sweet, pt 3

As I sat down to start working on chapter 34, I realized that I needed to add some kind of 'closure' to Erik's confession. I ended up writing the following very short piece. In the proper order of things, this is still chapter 33. This is a very short piece, but really deserves to be posted by itself, and not tacked onto the next chapter. Chapter 34 will be ready sometime next week, as I'm still working on some of the background research. -HD

**-0-0-0-**

**Chapter 33  
Memories Bitter and Sweet  
Part 3**

**-0-0-0-**

_Monday, April 11, 1881  
__Late afternoon_

As they went to leave the chapel, the first thing Erik noticed was that the ground was damp, and there were small puddles shimmering atop the weathered rocks. Apparently, a shower had passed overhead while he and Christine had been inside. Off to the west, the sky was now clear, and the late afternoon sun hung low on the horizon, its golden light reflecting brightly off the ocean waves. The rain was gone and what clouds that remained had moved off to the east, leaving the air behind them fresh and clean.

Taking a deep breath, that was how Erik felt – cleansed. The terrible emotional burden he had carried for so long had been removed this afternoon on the beach of St. Guirec. No more would he ever feel isolated and misunderstood. For the first time in his life, he felt not just love, but unconditional acceptance. No longer was he carrying the burden of his past alone. Christine had listened to his story, had not been judgmental in the least. On the contrary, she offered compassion and understanding, helping him to recognize that Aref had been right all those years ago, that there was something worth salvaging from a life that for so many years had not seemed worth living.

Turning to Christine, he took her hand in his. "Are you ready to go home?" he asked.

She nodded. "Yes. It's been a long day."

"Do you think Mamma is worried, concerned that we've been for so long?"

In spite of wondering whether Mamma might be concerned at their being gone so long, they took their time walking back to the house, wanting to enjoy each other's presence. Whenever he would look at Christine, there was a tenderness about her. She smiled at him often, squeezed his hand, and leaned her head against his shoulders as they walked. They spoke little, because words were not necessary.

When they reached Mamma's cottage, Erik was completely and utterly drained. Inside the house, Christine accompanied Erik to his room, suggesting that he lie down and got some rest while went back downstairs and helped Mamma prepare supper. Sitting on the edge of the bed, Erik had barely enough energy to remove his shoes.

Christine helped him off with his jacket, and hung it on a hanger. By the time she turned around, he was laying on the bed, already fast asleep. Pulling the curtains shut to darken the room, she went over to the bed and drew the coverlid up over him, kissing his forehead before closing the door and going downstairs to see if Mamma needed some help.

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	37. Strange Bedfellows

**Chapters 34  
Strange Bedfellows**

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_Friday, April 15, 1881  
Paris – Palais Garnier_

Organized chaos, better known as dress rehearsal, ensued. Today was the first day the company at the Paris Opera had a chance to do a dry run while in their new costumes, with the usual assortment of mismatched and malfunctioning wardrobe articles. In the wings of the Paris Opera house, Anatole Garron was tripping over his new attire, that of the High Priest of Dagon in Camille St. Saëns's opera, _Samson et Dalila_.

He paced to and fro, shaking wrinkles out of the woolen garb while trying to avoid stumbling over the hem. The costume reminded him of a Roman toga, with its white floor-length gown trimmed around the hem, neckline and cuffs with fancy braid work. It was accented with a maroon cloth draped over his left shoulder held in place by a golden brooch, and made him feel wrapped up like an Egyptian mummy. Worse yet were the wig that reached past his shoulders and tickled the back of his neck, the inordinately heavy headdress (he wondered if Old Testament-era priests really wore such contraptions!) and the false beard that smelled like horse hair.

He glanced out on the stage as he heard the piano accompaniment commence. It was afternoon; most of the vocal parts were done for the day, and singers were either hanging around in the wings or making their way to their dressing rooms. Now it was time for the corps de ballet to go through its paces, as the dancers were trying to work out their movements for the bacchanal sequence. Leading the female dancers was La Sorelli, with Meg and her coterie of ballet rats in tow. Anatole suspected that, from the looks that passed between them, there might be a feud brewing.

Still harrumphing over at the tangled mess he'd made of his costume, Anatole had his eyes cast down and failed to notice that he nearly bumped into another member of the cast.

"You are having troubles with your costume, Garron?"

He looked up in time to see La Carlotta standing in front of him. She, too, was in costume. Dressed as Dalila, she was wearing a sleeveless gown that was made of layers of floating, diaphanous material, almost the color of cream and cinched at the waist with a belt of golden chains, its hems brushing the tops of her sandaled feet. The bodice was decorated in such a way as to draw attention to her feminine curves, and the whole costume was bedecked with garlands of flowers. On her upper arms were gold armlets and around her wrists, bracelets. A golden circlet sat atop her dark, waist-length hair.

"Oh, my apologies," Garron said, making an exaggeratedly formal bow. "I didn't notice you standing there. It's this darned costume. It's worse than awkward. I feel like a walking drapery shop, and fear that I shall embarrass myself when I make my entrance on the stage by promptly tripping over my skirt and falling flat on my…er, face. If that happens, Samson et Dalila shall become a farce, more suited to the halls of the _opera comique_ than the Opera Garnier."

He bestowed upon Carlotta his most charming, congenial smile as he spoke to her, noticing for the first time how attractive she was and suspecting that the almost-transparent fabric of her costume was helping to accentuate her assets. The more he thought about it, the more it occurred to him that the temperamental diva had not been difficult these past few weeks. In truth, she had been quite friendly, so much so that even M. Villeneuve, who was usually driven to despair by her antics, had even been seen with a small smile on his face from time to time. Was it possible that with Christine's resignation, Carlotta was feeling more secure in her position on the stage and was actually softening? Anatole, a man who always appreciated a fine figure of a woman, smiled to himself as he wondered what it would be like to romance the diva.

"Did you have any say as to its design?" he asked politely, indicating her attire.

Carlotta smiled coyly. "Why do you ask? You…like it?" she said as she modeled it for him.

"The color suits you to perfection. And those flowers? Why, the whole effect is enchanting. I doubt there will be a Philistine in the audience whose head you won't turn."

Carlotta giggled like a school girl. "Anatole, you are too kind," she purred. "It is a shame I must seduce Signor Sospenzo. If only Samson were written for a baritone instead of a tenor." Stepping closer, she wound a curl around her index finger as she tilted her head to one side. "It would be much more pleasant seducing you," she said, her voice husky. "Don't you agree?" She leaned closer, ensnaring one of his arms in hers.

At that moment, loud voices disrupted the dancers and caught everyone's attention. "Can't you watch where you're going?" someone shouted. Garron and Carlotta looked at each other, then towards the stage. Meg and Justine appeared to be having a tiff.

"What's going on between those two?" he asked the diva. "La Sorelli looks awfully upset."

"It's the box keeper's daughter who is the cause of all this turmoil. She was bad enough before, the little chit, but now? Meg has been unbearable ever since returning from Nice with the vicomte."

Anatole was amused to hear Carlotta calling Meg "unbearable," those words coming as they did from a woman who, in the past, had perfected the art of being unbearable. He kept his thoughts to himself.

"She wants to supplant La Sorelli as the lead dancer, and is focusing all her effort towards that end. That Giry girl, she lets her 'position' with the vicomte go to her head. She thinks she is something special, but she's nothing more than a common _puta_." Carlotta spat out the last word, her animosity towards the ballerina quite evident.

Anatole's eyebrows went up at her tirade. "Such language," he chastised playfully, wagging a finger at her.

"It is no more than she deserves to be called. She has been going out of her way of late to make life difficult for La Sorelli. You would think they'd be friends. After all, they're sleeping with brothers."

Anatole scratched his chin as if in deep thought. "Hmm…I never thought of it that way. I guess I need to pay more attention to what's going on around here."

"No, no need to pay attention to them." She struck her most seductive pose. "I am sure _I_ can offer you much better entertainment."

-0-0-0-

The dancers finished their rehearsal, and the groups of women broke up into their various cliques. Many were eager to learn more about what was taking place between Meg and Justine, but were disappointed when Sorelli scurried off to her dressing room, hurt and angered, while Meg said nothing but stood with a smug look upon her face.

Looking off into the wings, Meg saw Raoul. Smiling, she went over to greet him. "I wasn't expecting you here so soon," she cooed.

If she was expecting an affectionate greeting from her lover, she was soon dispelled of that notion. Since returning from Nice, Raoul had been in a foul mood. It all had something to do with that trip he made to Delacroix's sanitarium. Meg smiled to herself. He thought she had no idea what was going on, underestimating her – as usual.

The fact of the matter was, all Raoul could think about these days was Erik's disappearance, and the fact that no one seemed to know where the man had been spirited off to. According to Delacroix, their 'patient' had been in no condition to leave under his own power. In fact, he had been so weak that he had to be taken out on a stretcher. Upon learning this, Raoul had tried enlisting his brother's aid, but all Philippe had done was laugh at his predicament.

The more Raoul thought about it, the more positive he was that Christine had engineered Erik's disappearance, and that only fueled his anger. Who else would give a damn about a deformed loner who hung around the opera house? It rankled Raoul every time he thought of how Christine had spurned him. After everything he had tried to do for her, after everything he had offered her, this was how the ungrateful bitch repaid him. He looked up at Meg, and saw that she was waiting for some kind of answer. What he had to say, though, was not what she wanted to hear. "Does anyone know Christine Daaé's whereabouts?"

A huge sigh came out as Meg shook her head in disbelief. "You know, I'm weary of your fixation with Miss Prim and Proper. She's gone. Her lover's gone. Good riddance to them both, I say. I have other problems. That cow, Sorelli, needs to be booted out, but that will not happen as long as she is under your brother's 'protection'. What good is it to be a patron here if you don't use your influence? You need to make him understand that Sorelli is over the hill."

Raoul glared at Meg menacingly. "Mlle Sorelli is the least of our problems. For your information, the opera ghost has escaped."

She snorted. "And I'm supposed to be worried?"

"You should be. Who knows what manner of mayhem he will wreak upon this place. He's a lunatic! A homicidal maniac!"

"If he decides to come after someone, it will be you, not me."

"Perhaps you underestimate your position, _Mademoiselle_," he said, his voice cold as ice.

Meg laughed sarcastically. "Are you trying to intimidate me? This has nothing to do with any opera ghost and you know it. It has everything to do with Christine turning you down. She never wanted anything to do with you, yet you've continued pursuing her as if she were the Holy Grail. And if you're thinking of getting rid of me, think about this. You will not be setting me aside just because you need a new thrill."

"I…I don't know what you're talking about," he sputtered. This was not going as he had planned. Meg should be cowering at the thought of him leaving her. Instead, she was practically threatening him, was being no more helpful than his brother had been.

"Remember that letter you've been carrying around with you? You know, the one from the sanitarium?" she said with saccharine sweetness. "The one you accidentally left at my apartment a couple of weeks ago?"

Raoul's eyes widened. "Did you…did you read it? Do you have it?"

She barked out a laugh. "You mean, you never noticed that it was gone? Of course, I have it – _and_ read it. Let me elucidate. I know what you've been up to, Raoul de Chagny, and I'm sure that scrawny little witch you've been chasing would appreciate a copy of this letter, to know that you are responsible for whatever happened to her fiancé. And that's not all I know. You see, Christine isn't the only person I've spied on."

"If you know what's good for you…" he started to say, but she interrupted him.

"You'll what?" she spat out, mocking him, enjoying the sight of the great Vicomte de Chagny squirming like a worm on a hook. It was time he learned that Meg Giry was not a woman to be taken lightly. "What will you do? Have me committed? I don't think so. If anything happens to me…," she paused to allow the impact of her words to sink in. "Let's just say I have evidence of assorted nefarious activities committed by a patron of this establishment. Said evidence is in a very safe place, with instructions to be delivered to certain persons of influence should anything happen to me."

Raoul tried to regain the upper hand, to retake control of the situation, which was spiraling out of control. "You misunderstood me, Meg. I was not threatening you. However, perhaps it would be best if I took my leave and left further discussion of the matter for another day when both of us are in better control of our…feelings," he said, pointedly suggesting that it was Meg who needed to rein in her emotions. "It is obvious that we both need to reevaluate our…situation."

"And where do you think you are going? Do you imagine that you're going to walk out of my life that easily?"

"Where I'm going is no concern of yours," he spat back angrily.

"You're wrong there, Raoul. Everything you do concerns me."

"For your information, I have an errand to run. Good day." And with that, he strode off the stage and out of the building, rushing off to _Le Coq d'or_. He needed to meet with Fournier – and fast.

Meg fumed as she turned to go to her dressing room, weighing her options, not realizing that Anatole and Carlotta had overheard their entire conversation. Like Raoul, Anatole also thought of an errand that needed to be performed. Excusing himself, he hurried past a stunned Carlotta and rushed to his dressing room. There, he quickly changed out of his costume and headed off to see Reynard.

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_Saturday, April 16, 1881  
Paris – Le coq d'or_

"You left word to see me, good monsieur?"

Raoul sat at one of the grimy tables in _Le Coq d'or_, across from Jean-Claude Fournier. The interior of the place was as dark and dank as it was the first time he'd been here. His stomach tightened when Fournier spoke, a feeling of unease coming over his at having to be indebted to the scoundrel – again.

"It seems our bird has flown," Raoul said, attempting to project an aura of insouciance.

An unpleasant chuckle came from Fournier. "So it seems. The Sûreté's got 'im now. Guess he won't be troublin' you anymore. You think it'll be a public execution? Haven't seen one of them in a long time."

"No, he's not in the custody of the Sûreté. Someone else has him."

Puzzlement showed on Fournier's face. "Whadya mean, someone else? I was told a police inspector came and snatched Monsieur Freak from the loony bin. That's why me an' my associates decided it was time to hightail it from the place."

"Whoever they were, they deliberately misrepresented themselves. They were not sent by the Sûreté. I suspect they were private inquiry agents working for Mlle Daaé."

"Ah," said Fournier, stroking his chin as understanding came to him. "The singer you're in love with, eh?" He laughed mirthlessly. "It looks like it would be to both our benefits to eliminate Monsieur Freak – you, so's you can have your woman, and me, so's I don't have to worry about him makin' trouble for me. Now tell me, exactly what do you want done?" Fournier's eyes took on a hard glint as he considered the various ways in which he would make the other man suffer. Yes, he would gladly dispatch Monsieur Freak to the afterlife, but he would have some fun before administering the final, lethal blow.

"I suspect that they are staying with Mlle Daaé's foster mother near Perros-Guirec. I don't want any witnesses, do you understand? Get rid of the freak and the old woman in whatever manner pleases you, but I do not want the young lady harmed. Do you understand? Mlle Daaé is to be brought back to me."

Fournier grinned cruelly. "How's about if I check out the wares first? You know, make sure everything's in workin' order? Chances are she's probably already had a romp or two with the freak."

Raoul bristled at the brute's uncouth suggestions. _"I said she is not to be touched!"_

"Ah…I understand it now," Fournier replied thoughtfully. "You're the nobleman; you're wantin' to have your way with her first. Don't want her all dirtied up by the likes of me. Don't worry, I'll deliver her to you unharmed – if possible," he said, pretending to agree to the vicomte's directive. After all, anything could happen in the heat of the moment. If the lady struggled, if he had to subdue her...who knows what he might have to resort to so as to make her come back with him…willingly. Besides, what the vicomte didn't know wouldn't hurt him.

Raoul proceeded to give Fournier directions to the Valérius house, as well as an ample sum to take care of the job properly. As the two men talked, neither noticed a third who was sitting in a booth behind them – close enough to eavesdrop, yet hidden in the shadows.

Lady Luck was smiling on Fournier's former collaborator, Alphonse Barbier, this evening. A couple weeks ago, Barbier had been contacted by a detective named Reynard d'Aubert. He had been given the choice of either helping the former police inspector or finding himself behind bars. Being a practical man, Barbier had opted for the former, feeling no loyalty to anyone. Tonight, he had simply come to _Le Coq d'or_ for a few drinks, but when he had seen Fournier enter the building, he had made a point of sitting where he could hear without being seen. The money promised in exchange for information would be a welcome addition to his favorite charity – Alphonse Barbier's Empty Pockets. Quietly making his way out of the building, Barbier headed for the detective's house.

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**Author's Note**

I played a little fast and loose with musical history in this chapter. _Samson et Dalila_, by Camille St. Saëns, was originally conceived as an oratorio. His librettist however, convinced him that the dramatic situations of the plot were far better exploited in a staged opera. Unfortunately, Biblical settings as subjects for diversion in an opera house were frowned upon, and consequently the finished opera found no takers among French impresarios. Even the Dalila of Pauline Viardot (to whom the work is dedicated), who staged the second act in 1874 in a garden at Croissy, failed to persuade the director of the Paris Opéra - one of the guests at this event - to perform the opera at his house.

Franz Liszt, a friend and mentor, had encouraged Saint-Saëns before the completion of the work, and through his intervention, the opera was premiered, in German, at the Hoftheater in Weimar in December 1877. However, it took another 13 years before _Samson et Dalila _was produced in France, at Rouen, and later that same year, 1890, in Paris at one of the smaller opera houses. The success of these performances finally led the Paris Opéra to bring out its own production in November 1892. New York saw a concert performance, in French, also in 1892, and a single concert performance was given in 1893, in English, at London's Covent Garden. The opera was subsequently banned by the Lord Chamberlain, on religious grounds. Thus, the first actual staging at Covent Garden took place after the ban was lifted in 1909 - on order of King Edward VII who, it is said, rather enjoyed the Bacchanale.

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	38. Unexpected Visitors

**A brief note** -- Although I'll try my best to stick to my schedule of posting a new chapter once a week, there may be some small delays in the next few. Unfortunately, I have some work to do (bummer!) plus I'm trying to make sure what comes next in the story follows a certain kind of logic. Thanks! --HD

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**Chapter 35  
Unexpected Visitors**

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_Saturday, April 16, 1881 – late afternoon  
__Perros-Guirec – Mamma's house_

For the first time in his life, Erik felt free of his past. True, those first few days after he had poured his heart out his to Christine and shared his darkest, most troublesome memories had been tinged with a sense of unease. He had worried that perhaps he had told her too much, that once the impact of what he had told her sunk in, she would have a change of heart. But as the days passed, he came to realize that such would never be the case. In fact, Erik felt he could now interact with Christine on a more intimate level – not necessarily physical intimacy, but the kind of spiritual intimacy that true lovers felt. Throughout his life, he had always felt the need to be reserved, to always keep his emotions walled off, his true feeling kept secret. Now there was no need for it.

Christine's faith in him never wavered. Not once had she ever said or done anything other than make him feel accepted…and loved. Just as she had done months ago when he first confessed his love for her, she continued to accept him with a maturity that belied her nineteen years. Perhaps this maturity was due to her own unique circumstances – the loss of both parents at a young age, being raised by a worldly-wise woman like Anna Valérius – and the recent events she had found herself drawn into.

Christine, on her part, found herself understanding Erik better than she had ever thought possible. He sometimes poked fun at himself for behaving like an old man, one time even referring to himself as being stodgy, but she knew that was not the case. It was true that he would always be quiet and dignified, a very private man, but stodgy? Never.

Since the day at the chapel, she had seen him grow more relaxed and confident in demonstrating his love for her. There were small signs of this growing confidence – the touching of hands over the supper table, the "accidental" brushing against each other when working in the kitchen, and a myriad other small contacts throughout the day.

It was late afternoon on another warm April day. Mamma had gone to market, and would not be home for a while.

Erik had recovered from the worst of his injuries. Most of the bruises were now faded away, and he was feeling stronger each day. There were still minor aches and pains, but these too were vanishing as the weeks pass. With Mamma's blessing, Erik was staying in Perros for now, and in return for her many kindnesses, he tried to make himself useful by helping around the house whenever possible.

Today, he had been working in the garden behind the stone house. There, he was cleaning up the herb garden and trimming back the plants that had wintered over and were now beginning to sprout their spring growth. To the left was another plot he had, this one for the planting of vegetables, and he had even put out sets of onions and planted lettuce and carrot seeds. Earlier, he had trimmed back the rose bushes and the perennial garden that bordered the grounds. Satisfied with a job well done, Erik stood back and admired his handiwork, imagining the roses in their first bloom of spring, covering the low stone fence that surrounded the property.

It was a warm day, warm enough to roll up one's sleeves and undo a few buttons on a shirt. Feeling a kink in his back, Erik decided this was as good a time as any for a short rest. There was a small rustic bench in the yard, little more than a couple of planks of wood resting atop two short sawhorses, but it was perfect for sitting on after a strenuous session of yard work. Setting the spade aside, Erik sat down and stretched his muscles, easing the aches out of muscles that had not seen much use of late. Being that he was alone with Christine, he did not wear his mask, and used one of his sleeves to wipe the sweat from his forehead. Behind him, he heard the back door open. He smiled and waved as he turned to see Christine come out of the kitchen.

Christine nodded back. She had a towel draped over an arm, and was carrying tray upon which were a pitcher of cold water and a couple of glasses. "Would you care to join me here?" she said, inviting him to sit next to her on the steps. "There's more room." Pouring him a glass of refreshing water, she made room for him to join her, and the two sat and talked.

"I've been thinking," Erik started to say.

"That can be dangerous, you know," she grinned back at him.

"True, but sooner or later it must be done. What I wanted to say was that soon I should start making arrangements to secure the rest of my belongings from my house."

Christine agreed, but worried that it was not yet safe to return to Paris. "We still don't know what Raoul or that other odious man may be up to."

"I agree with you completely." He took another sip of water, then took the towel from her and wiped his face. "Thank you," he said, putting the towel off to the side when he was finished.

"You know, I've had a lot of time to think about what I would like to do to a certain vicomte." He looked at Christine and saw the fear in her eyes.

"You're…you're not going after him, are you?" she asked, her voice quivering with worry.

Erik shook his head. "No. As much as I would like to do so, you needn't worry about me going after him." Taking her hand in his, he held it tight. "I realize, especially after discussing the matter with Monsieur d'Aubert, that any retribution I might seek against the vicomte would only result in more troubles for me and, more importantly, for you. I've decided that a peaceful life with you at my side is more important than anything else."

She turned her face to his. Reaching out with her free hand, she pushed back a few stray locks of hair that had fallen across his forehead. "You hair's mussed," she murmured as she pressed closer, finding his lips with hers.

"You mean, what little hair there is?"

"Oh, Erik," she sighed as she leaned against his shoulder, secretly pleased that he felt comfortable enough to actually joke about his appearance, and wanting the feel the warmth and comfort of his body next to hers. "All I want is to put these horrid events behind us. I want the two of us to marry and start our new life together. I never thought I would say this, but I don't think I could ever live in Paris again. It has too many painful memories."

"I agree. We should put as much distance between de Chagny and ourselves as possible; do whatever must be done to avoid contact with him. But I promise you this, Christine," he continued, holding her hand tighter. "If Raoul de Chagny ever threatens you, I will not rest until that danger is removed. If he ever attempts to harm you, if he lays one finger on you, or has someone else hurt you, I shall not rest until he is dead. I don't want his death on my hands, because in spite of his questionable behavior, he was once your childhood friend; I don't want him to become a source of pain between us. But this is my solemn promise: I shall do whatever I must to protect you. You are more precious to me than my own life." To seal his promise, he took her hands in his, raised them to his lips, and kissed the backs of her fingers.

They sat for several minutes, neither speaking, merely enjoying the birds as they sang, and the flowers that danced in the light breeze. Christine turned her head and noticed the contented smile upon Erik's face. "Whatever it is you're thinking about, it must be something good."

"It is. I was thinking of how fortunate I am that your foster mother is such a generous woman, allowing me to live here." A brief look of sadness passed over Erik's face, which was gone as quickly as it had come, but not before Christine saw it. "Is there something wrong? Did you try to do too much?" she asked, thinking that perhaps his grimace was due to too much work.

"I'm fine," he reassured her. "I was…thinking about my own mother. It's only recently that I've come to understand that, because of my father, I never really knew her." He shook off the gloomy thoughts and changed the subject to something more pleasant.

Christine looked at all the work he had done to the garden and yard. "I don't think need to worry about Mamma's generosity. It seems to me that you're doing a good job of repaying her. And speaking of living arrangements, I've been meaning to ask you, what's the reason for having me move out of my old bedroom and into Mamma's room? Do you find me…too much of a temptation?"

He looked over at her, and saw she was trying very hard to maintain a modest disposition, but it was obvious that it was a struggle. Erik inhaled deeply, knowing he was feeling the same urges, the same temptations, that Christine was feeling, maybe even more so. He had no idea how much longer he could hold out.

Deep down, Erik knew he was a hopeless romantic. He wanted to emulate the heroes in the books he read, the ones by Dumas, Hugo and others, and had often dreamt of being a knight in shining armor. It was not due to religious convictions on his part that he resisted what Christine referred to as the "joys of the flesh." His was a heroic ideal, one he could relate to far better than any religious strictures against carnal knowledge before marriage.

But because he knew that Christine's religion was important to her, he wanted to adhere to its guidelines even if he did not believe in them. This was something he would do for her sake. Even though she had many times hinted to him that "it" was agreeable to her, he had heard the occasional hesitation in her voice, as if wanting something she knew she wasn't supposed to be asking for – yet. By now, he knew her well enough to understand that she would be disappointed in herself (and him) if she were not married first.

"I never expected that all my dreams would come true, Christine. I've always fantasized about what it would be like."

"What _what_ would be like?" she asked dreamily.

He smiled at her. "You know – the perfect wife, the perfect wedding, the...the perfect wedding night...and now that I'm so close…now that _we're _so close…it would be..."

"…A shame to spoil it all?" Christine replied, hugging him tightly. "Oh, Erik! How did I get so lucky, to find you? But does that mean I can't try tempting you anymore?" she asked with a wicked grin.

"My dear Christine, I would think there was something wrong if you didn't. But while we're on the subject of weddings, have you given any thought to where you would like to live when we're married? I know you miss singing, and I suspect you've gotten a bit rusty. When was the last time you practiced?"

She grimaced. "It's true. I haven't practiced since…" she tried to think back, "…probably before you came here. I've been…busy. Perhaps you know of someone who would like to help me resume my lessons? The piano is once again tuned. And as for singing, once I'm in voice I could always volunteer to be part of the church choir."

"Hmm…" Erik muttered. At the mention of "church choir," he started wondering whether he would be able to hear her sing in a church. "I suppose…" he started to say but stopped.

"You suppose…what? That you might actually come and listen to me?" She knew he disliked the idea of going to church.

"I was going to say that I suppose I might have to attend services, if it means hearing you sing."

"Are you serious? Oh, Erik, that would mean so much to me!" She threw her arms around his neck and hugged him as tightly as she could.

"If I get this kind of reward for simply entering the building, then perhaps I should consider becoming the choirmaster. That way, I would have a say in the musical selections. I might as well sing, too."

She slapped playfully on the arm. "Oh, now you are joking, aren't you. I can see it now – the former Opera Ghost reduced to conducting the church choir. Can you imagine what all the newspapers would make of it?"

"I will refuse to grant any interviews. But back to where we will live."

"What can we afford?" she asked. "Are we talking about purchasing our own chateau, or renting an apartment in the city? Perhaps buying a modest cottage in a remote location far from town?"

He snorted at the mention of a chateau, but she ignored him.

"Seriously, Erik. I mean, I'm not working and so am not able to contribute financially. I brought back quite a few bundles of banknotes from your house, but I'm not sure how far that would go when it comes to moving to a new city, buying a new house, furniture, and all the other expenses that would entail."

"Money is not a problem. I have accounts in several Paris banks. The amounts are," he paused to consider how to word this, "substantial. Over the years, I made numerous successful investments. When we're ready to move, I shall liquidate those accounts. Closing them will require at least a couple of trips to Paris, so that cannot be done yet."

"Hmm... the fruits of your ill-gotten gains?" she teased. "We're going to have to find you a real job when this is all over, Erik."

"Perhaps I should stay at home and let you be the breadwinner?"

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_Sunday, April 17, 1881  
__Mamma's house_

It was a Sunday evening, and after a busy day at the Valérius house, the three of them – Erik, Christine and Mamma Valérius – had settled in for a very cozy, domestic routine. Mamma had become the mother figure Erik had always dreamt of having; when he thought of his mother at all of late, the two women were merging into one, one who looked and spoke like Anna Valérius. Her no-nonsense attitude was refreshing and invigorating, and under her influence, he was changing for the better. But this peaceful interlude was soon to be interrupted…

Supper was over and dishes had been washed. The three of them were sitting in the parlor. Mamma was seated in her favorite chair with bundles of yarn at her feat, while Erik – on the sofa – was holding unwound yarn in his hands, keeping it from tangling while Mamma wrapped the bundles into the smaller sized balls she found easier to work with. Across the room, Christine was sitting in another chair, pretending to read while secretly (or so she thought) gazing at Erik from time to time.

Earlier in the day, she had gone into town to visit an old friend who also sold woolens. The woman lived a number of kilometers out in the country and came to market a couple days a month. Mamma had purchased numerous bundles of colored yarns with the intention of crocheting a wedding afghan for Erik and Christine. She had not told either of them what she was planning, and thought herself quite to have persuaded Erik to help with what would end up being his own gift.

Christine started to read aloud.

_How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.  
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height  
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight  
For the ends of Being and ideal Grace.  
I love thee to the level of everyday's  
Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light.  
I love thee freely, as men strive for Right;  
I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise.  
I love thee with a passion put to use  
In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith.  
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose  
With my lost saints, -- I love thee with the breath,  
Smiles, tears, of all my life! -- and, if God choose,  
I shall but love thee better after death.1_

Erik had known she was watching, and from time to time caught her looking across the room. At the sound of her voice, he glanced up at her. Their eyes meet. Smiles were exchanged. Everything was calm, peaceful…then there was a knock at the door.

"Goodness!" Mamma exclaimed, dropping her yarn. "Who could be here at this hour? It's not as if we have neighbors nearby."

The Valérius house was located in a very rural location, several kilometers from Perros-Guirec proper, and what neighbors she had are few and far between. As a matter of fact, Erik could not ever recall anyone stopping by unexpectedly like this, even during the daylight hours. They could not immediately look out the large window as the curtains were partially drawn; the windows faced west, and Mamma often pulled the curtains shut to block out the afternoon sun when it became too bright. Worried looks were exchanged as Mamma rose to answer the door.

"No," Erik said, halting her. "Both of you – follow the plan we discussed earlier. Mamma, you and Christine go upstairs to your room and lock the door. I'll come for you when it's safe." He heard the sharp intake of breath from Christine, and knew she must have been trembling.

"You don't think…" she started to say.

He tried to reassure her. "It may be nothing, an innocent passerby looking for directions," not adding that it could just as easily be someone sent to do them harm, "but we mustn't take any chances."

"Shouldn't we turn down the lights?" asked Mamma.

"No. We don't want to do anything because that would raise the level of alert on the other side of the door." Motioning both of them to go upstairs, Erik rose and went over to the window. Carefully moving the curtain aside only slightly to avoid revealing any light to their visitors, he peered outside.

"Who is it?" he heard Christine whisper. He turned to see both she and Mamma were standing halfway up the stairs.

"Upstairs! Now! Both of you!" he ordered under his breath, making shooing motions with his hands to hurry them on their way. He watched to make sure they went this time, and didn't turn back to the window until he heard the door shut. Returning to the window, Erik made out two forms standing at the door. There was another set of gentle raps, but still Erik didn't move, his senses heightened as he sought out any possible signs of trouble.

There had been a full moon two nights ago, and as it was a clear night tonight, there would have been ample light for Erik to see their callers' features – if they had not been standing in the shadow of the house. As it was, it was too dark to make out any details other than that there were two of them. Looking further out the road, the unimpeded moonlight allowed him to see that there were no signs of a carriage or horses. Whoever they were, they had either left their transportation hidden from view, or had walked here.

Waiting for some clue as to the strangers' identities, Erik heard muffled voices coming from the other side of the door. "Is it possible they're not home?" he thought he heard one of them say. The voice sounded familiar, but he couldn't be sure. The response of the other man couldn't be heard, but at that same moment, one of the men struck a match. In the brief flare of the light, Erik was at last able to see their faces and ascertain that their visitors were indeed friends.

"You can come down now," Erik called up to the women. "It's Messieurs Garron and d'Aubert," he added as he went to open the door, completely forgetting that he was unmasked. "You gave us a bit of a scare," he said to the two men. "We weren't expecting anyone."

"I suspected as much," said d'Aubert. "That is why I lit my cheroot," he added, extinguishing it before entering the house. 2 "It is quite dark, and assumed you were not answering the door because you could not see who it was. I commend you on your precautions, Monsieur duBois."

"I can only assume that there's a problem," said Erik, once everyone was gathered in the parlor. "I can't imagine you've come here at this hour simply to wish us a good night."

"Unfortunately, you are correct," answered d'Aubert. "I have some unfortunate news to pass along to you. That which we feared may be about to take place. Raoul de Chagny has been in contact with Monsieur Fournier, and has vowed to find Mlle Daaé."

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**Author's Notes: **

_Sonnets from the Portuguese,_ XLIII: "How do I love thee? Let me count the ways..." by Elizabeth Barrett Browning (1806-1861). **_Sonnets from the Portuguese,_** written ca. 1845–1846 and first published in 1850, is a collection of forty-four love sonnets written by Elizabeth Barrett Browning. The poems largely chronicle the period leading up to her 1846 marriage to Robert Browning. Elizabeth was initially hesitant to publish the poems, feeling that they were too personal. However, Robert insisted that they were the best sequence of English-language sonnets since Shakespeare's time and urged her to publish them. To offer the couple some privacy, she decided that she might publish them under a title disguising the poems as translations of foreign sonnets. Therefore, the collection was first to be known as _Sonnets from the Bosnian,_ until Robert suggested that she change their imaginary original language to Portuguese, probably after his nickname for her: "my little Portuguese."The collection was acclaimed and popular even in the poet's lifetime and it remains so today. By far the most famous poem from this collection, with one of the most famous opening lines in the English language, is number forty-three.


	39. Disturbing News

Hopefully I've cleaned up any typos and grammar errors. If not, I'm sure my faithful following will inform me. And thank you all for your patience. Between this site having fits last week, and my own work schedule, I only just now have gotten this chapter finished. Oh, and sorry about the mix up in the titles of this chapter and the previous one. Somehow I had given chapter 35 the same title as this one. My mistake! --HDKingsbury

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**Chapter 36  
Disturbing News**

_Sunday night  
April 17, 1881  
Mamma's house near Perros-Guirec_

"Raoul de Chagny has been in contact with Monsieur Fournier, and has vowed to find Mlle Daaé."

No sooner had Reynard d'Aubert uttered those words than Erik heard a small cry from behind. He turned his head to see Christine standing at the foot of the stairs, her hands over her mouth, her face white from fear. Erik was anxious that she might faint, and reached out to her, pulling her into his embrace, rubbing his hand across her shoulders. Mamma was standing not far behind, her usually jovial face lined with worry.

"It's all right, Christine," he said soothingly as he hugged her. He reached out and with his hand brushed back a stray curl, tucking it behind her ear. He then turned back to Garron and d'Aubert. "I think it would be better if we retired to the parlor to discuss this." With his arm still around Christine, he led the group into the other room.

Erik and Christine took a seat on the sofa, while Mamma went into the dining room and brought an extra chair into the parlor.

"You look terribly pale," Erik said to Christine. "Shall I get you a glass of water?"

She smiled weakly at him. "No, that won't be necessary. I'm all right now. I…I guess I'm just a little nervous."

He gave her an encouraging look. "We're all a bit nervous." Satisfied that Christine was all right, he turned to their two guests. "So, tell us exactly what has happened to bring the two of you to Perros at this time of night?"

Anatole spoke first. "This past Friday, Raoul was paying a call on Mlle Giry at the opera house during rehearsals. He obviously did not pay attention to the fact that he was speaking in public, that others could hear what they were saying."

"No one ever said he was the brightest person in the world," Erik muttered. His arm still around Christine, he felt rather than heard her faint chuckle. This was a good sign, he thought, that in spite of the potential seriousness of the situation, she could laugh at his little joke made at the vicomte's expense. To Anatole, he asked, "Did they say anything of interest?"

"They seem to be having a falling out. He was asking Meg if she knew your whereabouts, Christine. When Mlle Giry dressed him down over his repeated questions about you, he implied that she had outlived her usefulness. Meg, in turn, threatened to expose his recent activities if he didn't play nice. It seems that M. le Vicomte had been careless again with that letter you found in the managers' office. You know, the one that helped lead us to Erik." Christine nodded, remembering only too well that afternoon she had overheard Raoul boasting to the managers. "After their argument, de Chagny informed Meg that he had an errand to run and abruptly left the premises."

Christine shook her head in disbelief. "I still don't understand it. Why is he doing this? Why is he bent upon pursuing me? Why can he not simply accept that I have no interest in him?"

Reynard d'Aubert had an idea. "As for that, I propose that M. de Chagny has developed an idée fixe where you are concerned, Mlle Daaé – a form of monomania."

"Monomania?" she repeated, perplexed. "I've never heard of that. Is it an illness?"

"It is an illness of the mind," explained Erik. "It is a condition in which the person becomes fixated on one idea or type of ideas. There are no limits to the possibilities of monomania. Often times it may appear to be trifling in character, and be accompanied by complete sanity in every other way. A man under its influence, however, can be capable of any fantastic outrage. In de Chagny's case, his idée fixe, his obsession with you, has taken over his life."

As he spoke those very words, Erik came to understand that, all along, it had been Christine who was the true object of Raoul's madness. What he looked like was secondary to the man's obsession, he had merely been an obstacle to de Chagny's goal. The kidnapping had less to do with his appearance, and everything to do with Raoul's fixation with Christine. Erik had simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time, so to speak. Raoul's desire all along was to possess Christine as he would possess a work of art or a precious stone. She would be another pretty bauble to add to his collection, to be shown off. That Erik had had the misfortune to be born with a facial disfigurement only reinforced de Chagny's conviction that he was doing the right thing, but was not the root cause of the vicomte's actions.

"We should still have time to put into place a viable strategy for dealing with this possible threat," added Anatole. "I mean, does Raoul even know where you are or the location of this house?"

Christine thought for a moment. "I'm not sure. I don't think so. The last time we had been in Perros together, I was only about seven years old…"

"That's not true," Mamma interrupted, her face all seriousness. "He knows. He came here last November, trying to learn more about your relationship with Erik."

"He…he came here?" Christine gasped; horrified at the idea that even Perros was no longer safe. "You never told me."

"I'm sorry, Christine," the older woman apologized. "It just did not seem very important at the time."

"There's more," added d'Aubert solemnly. "One of my informants, Alphonse Barbier, came to me yesterday. I mentioned him during my previous visit. He was one your abductors." The last was directed to Erik.

"I remember the name. He's the one you persuaded to be one of your informers, is he not? Would I be correct in assuming that he has been to you with news of Fournier?"

"Yes. He approached me yesterday after overhearing a conversation between de Chagny and Fournier. I'm not sure if he really didn't hear the entire conversation, of if he is holding out, trying to wheedle more money out of me. In either case, Barbier said he was in a place called Le Coq d'or when he saw the other two enter the establishment. He said he tried to sit close enough to listen in on what was being said, and overheard de Chagny offer Fournier a large sum of money to perform a job that seemed to involve kidnapping Mlle Daaé."

"And what about the rest of us?" Erik asked, doing his best to control the anger that was building within. "Surely, Raoul knows that if something were to ever happen to Christine, I would hunt him down."

D'Aubert's reply was ominous. "Barbier was vague as to that. Knowing Fournier's reputation as I do, it is best to assume he would be the kind to leave no witnesses."

I was afraid he was going to say that, Erik thought to himself, refraining from saying anything out loud for fear of upsetting Christine any more than she already was. Even so, he felt Christine shudder at the ominous pronouncement; saw her bravely trying to hold back tears.

"I'm sorry, Erik," she whispered.

"I thought we settled this once before," he said tenderly. "There is absolutely no reason for you to blame yourself for any of this. We need to concentrate on making some kind of contingency plans. Monsieur d'Aubert is right. It is best for us to assume the worst, that Fournier will come after us, and soon. I do not want either of you," he included Mamma in this, "out here in the country, away from help, while this danger exists. I suggest we make plans to leave the house."

Mamma surprised everyone with a response that was immediate and quite vehement. "I will not be forced to leave my house because of this miscreant."

Anatole spoke up. "Madame, Erik is right. This is for your own safety and wellbeing."

"We're only talking about a temporary situation," added d'Aubert.

Christine added her please. "Mamma, you cannot stay here. It is as Erik says; we're in a dangerous situation, out here, isolated as we are."

But the older woman would not budge. "I've lived through riots and revolutions. I can handle a single scoundrel."

"Is she always this stubborn?" Erik asked Christine.

In spite of the seriousness of the situation, Christine could not help but chuckle at her foster mother. "You have no idea," she said with a grin.

"Mme Valérius," Erik said, addressing her formally, as one would address a recalcitrant child, "you are being very mulish."

The older woman refused to capitulate. "I have no wish to endanger Christine. By all means, take her with you and find a safe place to stay until this is over. Besides, this Fournier person isn't interested in me – only the two of you."

"We don't know that for sure" interjected d'Aubert. "It is very likely that he will come after anyone who knows anything of this affair. He could take you as a hostage – use you as a bargaining chip to get at Mlle Daaé."

'Round and 'round they went, trying to persuade Mamma to change her mind, but no matter how hard they tried, she refused to budge.

"I can't leave Mamma here alone," Christine finally said. "If she stays, then I shall have to stay, too."

After several more minutes of arguing, the men realized that for better or for worse, the women were not leaving...at least, not tonight.

Erik sighed loudly, trying unsuccessfully to understand the workings of the female mind. "It seems we have only one other option left open to us at this time." D'Aubert and Anatole looked at him questioningly. "Who gets the sofa, and who sleeps on the floor?"

-0-0-0-

Mamma brought out several blankets and pillows from the linen closet and helped Anatole and Reynard get set up in the parlor. While the two of them were drawing straws over who would sleep where, the other three – Mamma, Erik and Christine – made their way upstairs. It had been a long night, with a lot of unpleasant news to digest.

Erik was standing by the window, looking out on the moonlit landscape, ruminating over what he had learned this night. The house was silent now. The voices from the parlor had quieted, suggesting that the detective and the baritone had finally come to some kind of an agreement over the sleeping arrangements. Mamma and Christine had retired to Mamma's bedroom, leaving Erik alone with his thoughts. Going over to the closet, he debated whether to change into his bed clothes or remain dressed, should there be an emergency. Finally deciding that whatever he might be called upon to do could be done just as easily in one as in the other, he undressed and slipped into the pajamas that had been included among the clothes Christine had brought back from his house. As he glanced over at the dresser, he saw sitting on top was his mask.

As if unable to believe what he saw, he brought his hands to his face, confirming that at no time this evening had he been wearing it. Still not able to believe what had happened, he picked up the piece of leather, staring at it, amazed that not once had anyone remarked on the fact that his face was exposed. Nor had any of them ever looked at him with an expression of disgust.

Of course, he would have expected nothing less from Mamma or Christine, but Anatole and d'Aubert? The more he thought about it, the more the whole incident astounded him. He was stunned – that was the only way to describe how he felt. Not only had no one ever said anything, Erik had not even been aware of this oversight. He put the mask back down on the dresser top. Was it possible that, in a matter of only a few weeks, the world had changed? Or was it that he was the one who had changed?

Deciding further thought on the matter was fruitless at this point, Erik blew out the oil lamp and crawled into bed. He found sleep elusive, however. His mind raced as he tried to come up with some way to convince Mamma to leave the house. As long as she opted to remain, so would Christine. And if Christine stayed, he would. It was as simple as that. But he didn't like it – not one bit. As he lay sleepless, he heard a faint knock on the door.

"Erik?" It was Christine calling softly to him. "Are you asleep?"

He threw off the covers, bolted out of the bed and opened the door. "Is…is everything all right? Is something wrong?"

She looked at him almost shyly. "I…I'm sorry, Erik. I didn't mean to wake you." Standing there in the faint light of the moon that filtered in through the window, she looked almost ethereal. Erik watched as she took a deep breath, trying to compose herself. "I'll go back to Mamma," she finally said.

"Wait," he said, opening the door, encouraging her to come in. "Something's troubling you, isn't it?"

She rushed over to him, clinging to him as if she were being pursued by demons. "I'm scared," she cried softly, her voice quivering. Forcing herself to calm down, she looked up at him expectantly. "I…I was wondering if I might stay with you tonight."

A smile crept over his face. "Are you sure you're not just trying to tempt me, Mademoiselle?" he asked gently, wanting nothing more than to chase away the demons that were frightening her.

With his arms around her, relief immediately flooded over her. She could feel her spirits life, just by being in the same room with him. He was so strong that nothing and no one would harm her here. "No, I didn't come to tempt you. I only thought I might be more comfortable sleeping in my old room. All this talk of Raoul hiring people to do goodness knows what has got me rattled," she admitted, trying to make light of what she had done. "I…I can make up a bed and sleep on the floor like I did when you were sick," she offered tentatively.

"Nonsense. There's plenty enough room for the two of us in the bed. Or have you forgotten so soon?"

"How could I?" she replied, a dreamy look coming over her face as she recalled the day she and Erik had lain together "like two spoons," as he had called it. She looked over at the bed, then back at Erik. "Are you sure you don't mind?" Then, with a little smile, she added, "I promise to behave myself."

Erik could not stop the laugh that came out. "That would be the first time." Going over to the bed, he removed the coverlet and folded it lengthwise several times. Pulling back the blanket and sheet, he laid the folded material down the middle of the bed, dividing it in two.

In the aftermath of her fear, she now felt herself stifling giggles. "What on earth are you doing?"

"Making sure you stay on your side. Now, come to bed."

Taking her by the hand, he walked her over to the bed, then waited until she was lying on her side and pulled up the covers, tucking them around her.

"Are you going to kiss me goodnight now? Like my father used to?" she asked. Even in the sparse light, he could see that her eyes were twinkling.

"If I kiss you, it most certainly won't be the way your father kissed you," he answered boldly.

"You'll have to prove that to me," she dared.

Instead of responding to her challenge, Erik walked around to his side of the bed and got in, making exaggerated moves to prove he was staying on his side.

"Well?" she turned in his direction, waiting expectantly. "Do I get my goodnight kiss?"

"So much for not trying to tempt me," she heard him murmur in her ear before he leaned over and kissed her goodnight.

-0-0-0-

**Author's Note:** I got the idea of 'diagnosing' Raoul with monomania from the annals of The Great Detective himself. Erik's explanation is a rewording of some dialogue of his friend and colleague, Dr. John Watson, and found in "The Adventure of the Six Napoleons," from _The Return of Sherlock Holmes_. The game is afoot!


	40. The Evil That Men Do

**Chapter 37  
The Evil That Men Do**

**-0-0-0-**

_April 17, 1881 - Sunday night  
__A seedy apartment in a rundown part of Paris_

Somewhere in Paris, a church bell was ringing, tolling the midnight hour. Citizens in the better parts of the city had long since retired for the night, but Alphonse Barbier did not live in what could, by any stretch of the imagination, be called a better part of town. This was where the poor lived, a part of Paris that was half slum, half working class neighborhood. Interspersed between houses and tenements and regular businesses – the green grocers, apothecaries, dry goods stores and the like – were the taverns and whore houses. It was in the latter two that Barbier spent most of his free time.

Usually midnight meant that the night was still young for him, but not this one. He had spent the most of the day celebrating his newfound fortune, drinking and whoring with friends and strangers who were willing to be friends if it meant Barbier would pay for their drinks. The ladies were especially sociable. Just the thought of all that money jingling in Alphonse's pocket got them excited, especially Colette, who was younger and prettier than most of her colleagues. She'd caught Barbier's eye earlier in the evening, and after a raucous time at a favorite watering hole, the two had retired to his apartment. She had not been disappointed in what he had to offer in bed. After several rambunctious rounds of grunting and groaning that had worn them out, they were now snoring away.

A thumping sound, muffled as if off in the distance, echoed through Barbier's sleep- and drink-clouded mind. What the hell was that? Was it his head pounding from too much drink, or was it something else? He tried to ignore the noise but it would not go away. Forcing an eye open, he glanced around the room. Whatever it was, it wasn't Colette's doing. Her luscious, plump, bare rump was sticking up next to him as she lay sprawled across the bed. Then he heard it again, someone quietly knocking at the door of his apartment.

"Barbier," he heard a hoarse whisper call out, "you in there?" Alphonse froze. It was Fournier. What the hell was he doing here, and at this hour?

"Yeah. Yeah. Just a minute," he mumbled a reply as he crawled out of bed and grabbed his pants. Stumbling to the kitchen, Barbier went to the sink and worked the pump a few times before a stream of cold water spewed out. Cupping his hands, he held them under the pump and splashed his face a few times, trying to wake up while stalling for time before going to face the man on the other side of the door. He really was in no mood to see his former comrade right now; he'd much rather crawl back into bed, wake up Colette and make the beast with two backs with her again. Instead, he returned to the bedroom and gave her backside a slap. "Time to wake up, girl," he said, picking up her shift from the floor and tossing it her way.

"Wh-What the hell…?" she groused, still half asleep.

"I got company. Anyway, it's time for you to go back to work," he explained.

Stumbling out of bed, she picked up the rest of her clothes and hurriedly dressed, checking her pockets to make sure her money was still there. Finding it still in place, she made her way over to Barbier. "Thanks for showin' a girl a good time," she said, giving him a quick kiss, then left the room and sauntered into the darkened hall, brushing past Fournier. "The night's still young," they heard her say as she exited the building.

"Who's that?" Fournier demanded as he entered the apartment.

"Just a whore," he replied. "No one important." Barbier pointed to a table that had seen better days, and upon which stood several bottles – some full, some empty – standing like silent sentinels. He invited his visitor to have a seat. At the table were a couple of rickety comb-back chairs. Fournier sat down on one of them, half expecting it to fall apart, and took in his surroundings. Fournier looked around the dimly-lit room. There wasn't a piece of furniture that was not broken down or dirtied. The paint was peeling off the walls and the floor was bare. Off the main room was a small walk-in kitchen cluttered with dirty dishes. A dirty sheet tacked over the window served as a curtain, and off in the corner stood a decrepit cast iron stove that was normally used for heating but had not been used in days.

Barbier went into the kitchen and came back with a couple of dirty glasses. Joining Fournier at the table, Barbier opened one of the bottles of whiskey and offered his former partner a drink. Bleary eyed, he was surprised to see Fournier at all. The two had not seen each other for nearly a month. They had parted company on relatively amicable terms, but things had changed lately – at least, as far as Barbier was concerned. He was pretty certain Fournier knew nothing about his having been at _Le Coq d'Or_ the other night, or his trip to see the detective, but he was nervous nonetheless. Fournier had that effect on people. Picking up the bottle, he held it out to the other man as he tried to disguise his nervousness.

"Care for a drink, Jean-Claude?"

Fournier accepted the offer. Shoving the glass aside, he pulled the cork from the bottle and guzzled down the throat-burning liquid. "Smooth," he coughed, his eyes glinting wickedly. "I came to ask if you'd be interested in earnin' some money. I got a little job as needs doin'."

"What kinda job?" Barbier asked worriedly. Knowing Fournier, it was not going to be something pleasant.

"Oh, nothin' much," the other man replied indifferently, taking another swig from the bottle. "Remember that job we did fer the vicomte? He's wantin' us to finish it up."

Barbier could feel himself begin to sweat. He rubbed his palms nervously across his pant legs. "Finish it…up? You mean…?"

"Yeah, we're to get rid of Monsieur Freak an' anyone else as gets between our noble patron an' his lady."

"They're here…in Paris?" Barbier asked incredulously. "I thought the man was taken into custody by the police."

"Apparently that was all a dodge. The vicomte believes they're livin' in Perros."

"I…I can't go to Perros. I don't have the money for something like that."

"That's not what I heard. I heard you got yourself some extra money to spend these days. I mean, lookie here; this liquor and the whore had to cost ya money. An' there's enough money left over to buy new bottles of booze before the old ones are finished." Fournier pointed to the kitchen.

Barbier felt trapped. "Look, I don't want to get involved any further," he whined. "The business at the sanitarium was enough."

"You gone soft on me? Or is it something else?" Fournier asked menacingly. "An' what's this I hear about you talkin' to detectives? Is it true?"

"Me? Talking to the police? Are you mad? Of course I haven't," but something told Barbier that Fournier was not believing him. He tried to laugh off Fournier's suspicions. "You know me, Jean-Claude. I ain't got no stomach for killin' people. Roughin' 'em up – maybe. But killin'?" He got up from the table. Fournier got up, too. "Look, if it's all the same with you, I'd just as soon bow out on this one." They walked over towards the door.

"If that's the way yer feelin'."

"Yeah, that's the way I'm feeling. No hard feelings, eh?"

"No hard feelings," Fournier replied. He smiled and held out his hand. Grasping Barbier tightly by the hand, Fournier pulled him close and shoved him up against the wall.

Suddenly there was a sharp, burning sensation in his midsection, and Alphonse looked down to see the hilt of a knife protruding from his abdomen, Fournier's other hand gripping it tight. The pain intensified as he helplessly watched Fournier pull up and twist the blade, tearing his guts apart. Barbier tried to call out but suddenly found he could not breathe.

Still pinning him against the wall, Fournier pulled the blade out and thrust it in a second time, and then a third. Drawing the blade out with a final, vicious jerk, Fournier stepped back. He watched with an almost detached curiosity as Barbier slumped to the floor, clutching at his stomach. The dying man reached out, grabbing at Fournier's boot, but Fournier only kicked the offending hand away.

He calmly stared at the scene playing itself out before him and did not move until Barbier's dead eyes stared back. Pleased with himself, he calmly walked into the kitchen, pumping the water and cleaning the blood off the knife as well as his hands and arms. Returning to the front room, he glanced at the brand new bottles of whiskey and grabbed one. Then he searched the apartment and found Barbier's stash of money, still stuffed into the dead man's shirt pocket that had been carelessly tossed over the back of a chair. Laughing to himself, he took another pull from the whiskey bottle as he walked out the door, counting Barbier's money and wondering if he'd have to look for the whore and silence her as well.

"No hard feelings at all."

-0-0-0-

_Monday, April 18, 1881  
Mamma's House – predawn hours_

It was still dark outside. Erik looked at the clock. It said it was just past 4 o'clock. It wouldn't be dawn for at least another hour, but he could not sleep. In fact, he hadn't slept much at all during the night, only dozed off now and then. Between trying to decide what to do about Mamma's stubborn refusal to vacate the house and Christine's presence in his bed, there hadn't been much inducement for sleep. He looked over at her slumbering form, looking so sweet, so innocent. At least someone had been able to get some rest. Doing his best not to wake her, he eased himself into a sitting position and gently pushed back the covers. Before he made it out of bed, however, a small voice in the dark called to him.

"Erik, are you awake?"

Still sitting on his side of the bed, he turned to see her looking up at him, a silly grin on her face. "Just . . . go back to sleep, Christine."

"Is something wrong? I did as you asked. I stayed on my own side of the bed," she said, attempting to look demure.

"No, everything's fine. I just couldn't sleep."

"Well, I'm not going back to sleep if you're not." She sat up, laid the covers back over her lap and folded her hands primly . . . and smirked. "Whatever it is that's bothering you, I'm sure I'm part of the problem. I can't imagine how difficult this night has been for you – the two of us together in bed, and these silly promises about waiting for our wedding night. Yet through it all, you stayed true to your word."

Taking a deep breath, then letting it out slowly, he purposely looked up at the ceiling rather than at her. "You have no idea how hard it was!"

Christine's hands flew up to cover her mouth as she let out a very unladylike snort, trying to choke back a laugh.

His head turned sharply as he glared at her. "What was that all about?" Then he knew exactly what she was thinking as he watched her shoulders shake in silent laughter. After all, she had spent most of the past two years living and working at the opera house, which was an education in itself when it came to human behavior. "Stop that! You know what I meant," he said grumpily.

She batted her eyelashes, and folding her hands once again, and tried to keep the grin off her face. "I have no idea what you're talking about. Perhaps you should explain what this is all about. You said I had no idea how hard _it_ was, and I simply agreed."

"There you go again, deliberately misconstruing my words!"

"This is getting a little out of hand, wouldn't you say, Erik? And who's putting words into whose mouth? I did not say anything improper."

"But you were thinking it."

"I was?"

"You know perfectly well what I'm referring to."

"I think that's part of the problem." Finally, she took pity on him. Scooting over the bed divider, she sat on his lap, threw her arms around his neck, and hugged him. "You poor man," she cooed as she leaned forward for a kiss. "We need to get you married – and soon. You're beginning to imagine things!"

"Seriously, Christine, I'm troubled. What must I do to get Mamma to see reason? I never would have expected her to be so irrational about something like this. How do to make her understand the seriousness of the situation?"

"I don't know, Erik. Mamma's always had a stubborn streak in her. Once she makes up her mind, it is almost always impossible to get her to change it. I don't think she likes the idea of running away. From what she's told me of her past, that happened more than once during the riots back in '48. I'm sure she's determined never again to allow someone else to force her out of her home – especially when we don't even know when or if the threat is coming."

Erik considered what she said. "I can appreciate that . . . to a point." He sat, contemplating the possibilities. Gently disentangling himself from Christine's embrace, he rose from the bed and started pacing the floor, finding pacing more conducive to thinking than having Christine in his lap. He scowled at no one in particular as thoughts flashed through his mind, his frown increasing as he considered first one and then another, dismissing all until finally one came to him that pleased him.

"Is there a cellar with an outside exit of some sort? If Mamma insists on staying here, then perhaps we can fix up one of the rooms and make it safe. If there's not a cellar, then maybe we can use one of these rooms upstairs. We'll make this place stronger than the Bastille." He turned to Christine. "Do you know if Mamma has any kind weapon around the house? Maybe a gun that used to belong to the professor?"

Christine nodded. "I remember her showing me a musket or something. It's stashed away in one of the closets if I remember rightly. It was given to her by an old war vet several years ago. The dear man said he didn't like the idea of a woman living alone without being able to defend herself."

"In a quiet place like this?"

"Even quiet places can have criminals."

"True. Does she know how to use it?"

"I don't know. I certainly can't, that's for sure."

"That's all right," he smiled at her. "I can teach you."

"Should we start now? Or wait until the rest of the household is awake?"

"I think we can let the others sleep another hour before we get started. I won't be able to go back to sleep, so I may as well get dressed and check out the other rooms around the house, see if I can't figure out what will work best."

"May I help?" Christine asked. "I'm not going to be able to get back to sleep any more than you. I'll just slip back into Mamma's room and get dressed. Hopefully she's still asleep."

Erik opened the door and stepped into the hall, checking to make sure no one else was experiencing a sleepless night. Reassured that no one was roaming the house, he returned to the room. "Do you think Mamma will realize where you spent the night?"

"Probably, but she won't mind. Remind me sometime to explain to you her philosophy on 'journeys of discovery'."

"By the way, did you really come here last night because you were scared? Or was there another reason you're not telling me?"

Christine only smiled as she picked up her robe, slipped it on and quietly padded down the hall to Mamma's room.

-0-0-0-

_Later that afternoon__, along the docks in Paris _

Since leaving Delacroix's sanitarium, Gérard Gaultier had taken to doing day work at the docks in Paris. He had had no further contact with Jean-Claude Fournier since the three of them had parted company following the incident involving the man they'd picked up outside the opera house back in February. Fournier had assured him the man had been a menace to society, and Gaultier willingly believed him. What's more, the pay had been good. But in spite of all that, Gaultier had never felt comfortable around Fournier. The man took things to excess, especially when it came to the treatment of the inmate. Then the police came and took the man away, and the three of them – himself, Fournier and Barbier – agreed that it would be best if they all laid low for a while.

Now that he was away from Fournier's influence, Gaultier wanted it to remain that way. That was why, when he found himself face to face with him once again, Gérard knew nothing good would come of it.

"You positive you don't want in on the job? You'll get an equal share of the money," Fournier was saying to him.

But Gaultier was not sure that further association with Fournier was worth the benefits being offered. Only this morning he had heard some troublesome news. "I dunno," he replied, keeping his face blank, not wanting Fournier to suspect his unease. "I heard that Barbier met with an unfortunate end last night. Seems someone broke into his apartment an' stabbed him to death. Heard it weren't a pretty sight."

Jean-Claude smiled nastily. "Yeah, I heard the same thing. Heard the whore he'd spent the night with was found dead, too."

Gaultier eyed Fournier suspiciously. "You know anythin' about what happened to either of 'em?"

The other man gestured that he did not. "I dunno. Guess it was jus' a matter of bein' in the wrong place at the wrong time."

"In his own apartment?" That didn't sound right. It was obvious Fournier knew more than he was letting on.

"Heard Barbier turned stool pigeon, though…" Fournier added, then said nothing more, as if to let Gaultier stew in his own juices for a while.

Gaultier knew that their former captive – what was his name? Erik? – had good reason to want the three of them dead. Had Erik been released from police custody? Was he even now tracking them down? Is that who had sent Barbier to meet his maker? Or, was it Fournier who was responsible?

"What are we supposed to do?" Gaultier asked, still not having made up his mind.

"We go to Perros. We pick up the nobleman's lady friend an' brings her back to him, gettin' rid a any witnesses what might be in the way."

"Witnesses? What witnesses?"

"Oh, the lady's mother, maybe the freak 'imself. They're all supposed to be holed up in a house outside a Perros."

The more Fournier said, the less Gaultier liked what he heard. He was being offered money to kill a women, an old woman at that. To be sure, she would be a potential witness to this crime, as would the freak. They both would likely testify against him if the crime came to light. But that was if he took part in Fournier's "job." He was now certain that Fournier had killed Barbier, that if he said no, Fournier would hunt _him_ down and kill him, too. Gaultier tried to find a compromise.

"Do we have to kill 'em? I mean, the old lady? The freak I don't care about but the other? What if we just, you know, scare the shit outta her?"

Fournier laughed harshly, a sneer on his lips. "You tryin' to tell me you suddenly developed a conscience?"

Gaultier hesitated. "It would be like killin' my own mother," he offered weakly.

Fournier lifted his shoulders unconcernedly. "What's wrong with that? Or would you rather be spendin' the rest of yer life rottin' in some hell hole? I'm sure the vicomte can arrange easily it. One word from 'im, and you'll be the most wanted man in France. Maybe he'll even have you packed off to the Delacroix – get a taste of yer own special medicine."

And so Gaultier came to the conclusion that he really had only one choice – to throw in his lot with Fournier.

-0-0-0-


	41. Preparations

The merde's about to hit the fan. Enjoy!

**Chapter 38  
Preparations**

**-0-0-0-**

_Monday, April 18  
__Afternoon_

It was early afternoon. The day had broken with an overcast sky, and the steel-gray clouds lowered, threatening rain all morning. But now the clouds were breaking and the sun was peeking through. The inhabitants of the Valérius house looked upon this as a good sign.

"If I were a superstitious person, which, may I add that I am not," Anatole Garron was telling Reynard d'Aubert, "I would say that this is a sign from above, that while things look dark for us now, they won't remain that way for long."

"Pah!" Reynard curled his upper lip at the idea of placing stock in old wives' tales. "I prefer to put my trust in a _Chamelot-Delvigne_," he said, patting the holster and service revolver he was wearing under his jacket.

Since breakfast, the five of them had been taking stock of their situation. As it had been decided that they would be staying, they had every intention, as Erik had said earlier, to make the place as secure as the Bastille.

Mamma was in the process of showing Anatole and Reynard the grounds around the house, including the cellar and the outbuildings – the small shed where gardening tools and other implements were kept, and the chicken coop that housed her rooster and a few laying hens. The two men had given up trying to convince the older woman that leaving the house was the best option, knowing that her mind was already made up.

"My mother used to be the same way." Reynard was keeping his voice down as he spoke to Anatole, not wanting to be overheard by Mamma. "Never would listen to common sense. Always thought she could see herself through any difficulty on her own."

"You've got to admit, from what she's told us, Mme Valérius had dealt with her share of difficulties. I can understand why she might come away feeling the way she does. One way or the other, we'd have to face these people. And why not on the ground of our own choosing?"

Reynard made a dismissive sound. "What are you now? A military strategist?"

Walking the perimeter of the property, they were considering the best places to set up alarms, including wires that, when tripped, would make noise and let the inhabitants know if an unwanted visitor was approaching. They were also looking over the shutters for the house. Mamma explained that they were very sturdy; they had to be, to withstand some of the storms that come in off the sea.

"I still like the idea of a pit trap with sharpened spikes," Anatole said _sotto voce_ to Reynard. "Mamma could always use them for bean poles in her garden when this is all over."

"With your luck, you'd trip and fall in your own trap," was all Reynard would say on the matter.

-0-0-0-

While Anatole and Reynard were outside with Mamma, Erik was inside, working out other safety strategies with Christine. He was concerned that Fournier or one of his cohorts might try to climb the roof and drop something into the house, and so wanted to inspect the chimney. While up there, he was also going to determine whether or not he could install some kind of screen a bit lower down the chimney – anything to catch something like a smoke bomb that could be tossed down the opening and give the house's inhabitants time to act. Of course, making something like that depended upon what kind of materials Mamma had out in her shed.

"This is way to get up to the roof," Christine was explaining, directing Erik into one of the upstairs storage rooms and the flight of stairs against the wall. She halted suddenly when a rope flew through the air, dropping a lasso down upon her. The person at the other end tugged just enough to tighten the rope around her waist and pin her arms to her sides. Startled, she turned to see Erik grinning at her as he pulled her to him, like a fisherman reeling in his catch.

"What is this all about?" She tried sounding serious, but for the life of her could not keep the grin off of her face.

"You need to be punished, mademoiselle, for tormenting me last night."

Her eyes widened, and the grin spread even wider. "What kind of punishment were you considering, monsieur?"

"Something like this," he said, gently wrapping the rest of the rope about her waist. He then took hold of her upper arms and held her close, his eyes boring down on her with unspoken desire.

"If I'm to be punished, then…I surrender," she said, capitulating without a struggle. "Have your way with me." She leaned into him, daring him to make his move.

He drew her closer, his fingers twining through her honey-gold curls. Their noses touched slightly, and he tilted her head so that his lips brushed back and forth over hers. He heard her moan softly through the long, slow kiss, felt his body respond to hers as she pressed her hips against his. After what seemed like an eternity, he reluctantly dragged his mouth away from hers.

"Why did you stop?" she asked when she finally got her breathing under control.

"Because that, mademoiselle, is your punishment," he replied, his breaths equally ragged. "To leave you wanting more." _And I am punishing myself every bit as much as I am punishing you by not giving in, _he thought to himself as he tried to calm the heartbeat that was pounding in his ears.

She did not want the moment to stop. She did not want Erik to stop. Christine wanted to melt in his arms. What was she had said? _Have your way with me._ That's what she wanted. Such delightfully wicked thoughts made her shudder with pleasure and expectation. Stretching her neck forward, she found his lips again. After a searing kiss that left both of them weak-kneed, she struggled to ask, "Where did you learn that?"

"Where…did I…learn to kiss like this?" he replied, not wanting to break contact with her, nuzzling the tender spot on her neck, his teeth nipping the lobe of her ear.

"No, you naughty man – this." She used her chin to point to the rope that was still wrapped around her, keeping her from using her arms or hands.

Smiling, he took a step back and removed the rope with slow, languid movements. "It's called the Punjab Lasso. It was part of my act when I was performing at Nizny Novgorod." He saw the suspicious look on her face. "What did you think? That I was a rope-wielding assassin?"

Once free of the lasso, she put her arms to good use, encircling his neck and pulling him to her, feeling the heat of his body against hers as they kissed one more time. "It's a good thing I didn't know about this when Monsieur Buquet died," she whispered into his ear. "I might have believed those stories about the vengeful O.G."

The voices of the others in the yard below drifted up to the second floor of the house and brought Erik and Christine back to the matters at hand. Giving him a smirk, she said, "I suppose we should be checking out the chimney – shouldn't we?"

"_I _shall be checking out the chimney, my dear. _You_ will remain safely _inside_."

-0-0-0-

"Now that we've taken care of this, we should probably secure everyone's important belongings – money, jewelry and the like." Erik had come down from the roof and was dusting off his hands after having put the finishing up the installation of a chimney screen. He saw the quizzical look on Christine's face. "You know, in case of a fire. Does Mamma have any kind of safe? It doesn't have to be large, just something big enough to hold money, jewels, important documents. Things like that."

"Do you really think that's a possibility?" she asked. "That these people would resort to burning us out?"

"I don't know what they'll try, Christine, but I don't want to take any chances. Perhaps we're overreacting to the situation, but it is always better to plan ahead and have nothing happen than to not plan and lose everything. After all, I've seen firsthand what they're capable of."

"You're right, of course," she said after a silent moment, remembering how Erik might have died at their hands. "Mamma's still helping Anatole and Reynard outside. I'll go ask."

Erik combed his fingers through his hair, sighing as he pushed his hair away from his face, trying to think if he had forgotten anything. "I knew I should have asked you to bring my strongbox back when you went to Paris."

"Who would ever have thought that we would need to do this? Please, Erik, don't be so hard on yourself."

Christine left the room, and a few minutes later returned, followed by Mamma.

"You want a strongbox? I've got one." Mamma went over to the broom closet and brought one out. "Here, we can use this one, then maybe hide it out back by the chicken coop. The only thing I ask is that we put Gussie's picture in it."

"Gussie?" Erik asked, puzzled. He had never heard Mamma refer to anyone called Gussie before.

The widow pointed to the professor's picture, a far-away look in her eyes. "_Ja._ That's what I always called my Gustave."

-0-0-0-

_Wednesday, April 20  
__Somewhere near Perros_

Fournier and Gaultier arrived in Perros late in the afternoon, after having taken the train from Paris. With the money de Chagny had given Fournier for the job, they were able to secure a private compartment rather than sit in one of the common passenger coaches where everyone was crowded together. Fournier would rather have saved the extra money the private compartment cost, but did not want to risk their being overheard as they discussed what they were going to do in Perros.

The two men were making their way from the train station and wandering around the streets of the town, getting themselves acquainted with the area. "We'll need to blend in better," noted Fournier when he saw that most of the locals were dressed in traditional Bretagne costumes. "Wearin' these," he pointed to their shirts and trousers, "we'll stick out as strangers, an' that won't do."

Gaultier agreed. "Should we stop at one of the shops and buy some clothes?"

"Hell, whadda we need to waste good money like that fer? We'll jus' take what we need. There's gotta be some clothes hangin' out to dry around here."

Having commandeered some more traditional attire from an unsuspecting house, the two men consulted the map de Chagny had drawn, providing direction on how to find the Valérius house.

"Keep yer eyes open an' yer mouth shut," cautioned Fournier. "We may look like 'em now, but we don't speak 'em. Stupid fools, don' even talkin' decent French."

Gaultier, who remained an accomplice by duress, simply nodded his head. If he could have found a way out of this mess, he would have taken it. As it was, all he could do was allow Fournier to drag him deeper and deeper into the quagmire. If only…

Fournier interrupted his thoughts.

"An' keep a lookout fer someplace where we can hole up while we figger out how to take care of business."

A short ways outside of Perros, somewhere in the direction of the Valérius house, they found an abandoned fishing shed that they took it over. They stole whatever they need, knowing they wouldn't be staying all that long. Besides, Fournier had no wish to use up any more of Chagny's funds than necessary.

His plan was to use the element of surprise, for the two of them to wait a day or two and investigate the area. Fournier had no way of knowing how much, if anything, Barbier told the detective, and if the detective had passed on that information. But it was best to expect the worst. So they decided to wear their intended victims down – check out the household, find out how many they were dealing with, and wait for someone to make a mistake.

Then they would make their move.

-0-0-0-

**Historical Notes:**

The _Chamelot-Delvigne_ 11mm _Modele_ 1873 was adopted by the French army as a service revolver for noncommissioned officers? Or the _Modele 1874 Revolver d'Officier,_ was the version issued to officers. I imagine d'Aubert served during the Franco-Prussian War.

The differences between the two models included the following: the 1873 was finished in the white, whereas the 1874 had a fluted cylinder and a blued finish. The 1873 and 1874 were the first center-fire cartridge revolvers adopted by the French army. They were solid-frame, side-ejection, double-action mechanisms. The pistols were manufactured by the St. Etienne armoury, which still continues to manufacture fine sporting arms to this day. The design of these pistols would prove so popular that versions of this pistol would be adopted by the Belgium, Dutch, Italian, and Swiss armies.

The caliber of these French pistols was 11x17.8 R. The French round was actually 4/10 of a millimeter larger than its German counterpart. The German round could be loaded and used in the French pistol, but French rounds would not chamber in the German pistol. The cartridge had a pointed lead bullet weighing 11 grams. The case length was 17.8 mm, which was rather on the short side. Reloading this cartridge could take some patience due to the shortness of the case. Military specifications called for black powder loads, which were changed to a mild smokeless powder when the pistols entered the 20th Century. Standard muzzle velocity was around 550 feet per second. I believe the pistol could easily handle much more, but there is no need to push it.

Although heavy, the pistol feels good in the hands and shoots comfortably even today. The cylinder had a side-loading gate, which pulled straight to the rear. The sight picture was a ball and v type and is easy to align. It could be difficult to stay on target double-action due to the stiffness of the action. There was certainly no danger of accidentally pulling the trigger double-action; you had to mean it. Cleaning and disassembly were easy due to the fact that the cylinder pin doubled as a screwdriver and all-purpose tool. Internal parts were finely machined and finished. The trigger, hammer, and several of the internal springs were straw finished, which was a type of case-hardening hot oil finish.

The French pistols began their service with the French army in the late 19th Century and saw service all over the globe in French colonies. Many saw service in World War I when European armies finally realized how important pistols were in the trenches. The _Chamelot-Delvigne_ finally ended its venerable service as a police sidearm in World War II.

Another big THANK YOU to MadLizzy and her wicked sense of humor for the idea of Mamma recycling the sharpened stakes as bean poles. Good thing Vlad Tepes isn't around!


	42. Strangers Among Us

A huge THANK YOU to MadLizzy! Not only is she my weapons and personal safety expert, but she also provided a great deal of help with writing about the chess match between Erik and Reynard. My goodness, what would I do without this woman's help? For one thing, probably not write as good a story, that's for sure. Lizzy, remind me to give you a raise!

**-0-0-0-**

**Chapter 39  
Strangers Among Us**

_The Valérius house later that same day_

"How many times have you seen that man walk down this road?" Reynard asked Erik, pointing to a lone figure ambling past the house.

Everyone was on edge these days. Erik and Reynard were sitting in Mamma's parlor, pretending to play chess in an effort to keep from getting overly anxious. Mamma and Christine were in the kitchen, pretending to turn some of the canned provisions from the cellar into a palatable meal. Anatole strolled about in the yard, pretending to get some fresh air, all the while keeping a close watch on things from the outside.

When the detective's trained eye picked out the same stranger passing by the house for the third time in two days, his internal alarm went off. From the man's posture and the way his head shifted from side to side, it was apparent that he was either nervous – or looking for something. Erik shifted his gaze from the chessboard to the window, squinting hard to try and make out the features on the man's face, but whoever he was, he had his collar turned up, providing a convenient disguise. The posture, however, looked vaguely familiar.

"His face may be partially obscured, but I'm sure I've never seen him around in all the weeks I've been here," Erik said, not taking his eyes off the figure as it retreated down the road and out of sight. "Granted, I haven't exactly mingled with the local populace, but this is a side road that has very little traffic; in spite of that, we have seen this same person go by several times in the last 48 hours. It strikes me as rather suspicious under the circumstances."

Reynard picked up his cheroot from the nearby ashtray and took a deep draw on it, blowing out a ring of smoke. "There could be a simple explanation," he said, his eyes narrowing as he contemplated his first move. By luck of the draw, he was playing White, so he relaxed in the knowledge that he stood the better chance of winning the game. "It may be that he's been around all along, but that we never noticed him before today." Reynard picked up his pawn and made his move. "Pawn to king knight four," he said.

Erik raised a skeptical eyebrow. "I doubt that." Erik moved quickly and decisively. "Pawn to king four."

"He could be a new neighbor, only recently moved in." Reynard stroked his mustache thoughtfully as he considered the board. "Pawn to king bishop three," he muttered distractedly.

"Possible, but not probable." Erik made another move, grasping the piece by the crown with two of his elegant fingers. "Queen to rook five," he said, standing and stretching to look out the window again.

"That…that's impossible," Reynard said, as he realized he'd been checkmated in two moves. He blew another smoke ring, disgusted with himself.

"You're mind wasn't on the game," Erik said sympathetically. "You were distracted by more important matters."

"I won't make that mistake again."

"What mistake? Concentrating on real danger rather than a game? I should hope you will," Erik scoffed, offering his hand in a gesture of good sportsmanship.

"That's not what I mean," Reynard said, accepting the handshake. "I shan't underestimate you again."

Erik cocked his head to the side and studied d'Aubert. The two of them looked at each other in a new light. "You remind me of someone I knew a long time ago," Erik said slowly.

"Another victim of your chess prophylaxis?" d'Aubert inquired.

Erik shook his head and stared out the window, his mind far away. "A friend," he said quietly. He looked at d'Aubert intensely before speaking. "A chief of police, in Persia. Many years ago."

"Did he teach you that mate?" d'Aubert asked.

Erik laughed lightly. "He taught me to be a better man," he said, turning serious as he remembered the Aref's last words to him: _There is a candle in your heart, ready to be kindled. There is a void in your soul, ready to be filled. You feel it, don't you?_

"Oh, good. You saw him, too," Anatole said, coming through the parlor door. Christine and Mamma were standing behind him.

"Anatole says he saw a man," Christine said as she walked across the room to stand close to Erik. She slipped her hand into his and held it tightly.

"We noticed a stranger in our midst. At least three times in the last two days, the same man has been seen walking past the house," Reynard explained.

"Do you think he's…one of them?" Christine looked out the window, but could see only the bucolic spring scenery.

Mamma did not say a word but left the room and went to the same broom closet where she'd had the strongbox. When she returned, she was carrying an ancient musket as long as she was tall, a vintage weapon left over from the Napoleonic wars. "Then perhaps it's time I bring these out, _ja?"_ she offered, holding out the gun. Its size was impressive; the barrel alone was over a meter in length. With its saber-bayonet attached, it was longer than Mamma was tall.

"Wherever did you get that?" asked Erik as he accepted the firearm from her, amazed to see such an antique.

"May I see that?" Anatole asked, taking the vintage weapon from Erik. He eyed the thing lovingly, rubbing his fingers along the wooden stock, impressed at its excellent condition. "I suspect this will blow a hole through somebody who gets too close," he said, keeping the thing pointed down. "Looks like a Charleville Model 1777 musket. Would you agree?" He turned to Erik.

"You know your arms," Erik replied.

"It's a hobby of mine." Anatole turned to Mamma. "When was the last time you used this, Mme Valérius?" he asked, keeping it pointed at the floor.

"Oh, I've fired it a few times so that I would know how to use it. The old gentleman who gave it to me showed me how. I also have these." Reaching into her apron pockets, she pulled out two more weapons. The first was a smallish pistol, rather old, but not as old as the musket. It was the kind of weapon a woman would have carried in her reticule or hidden in her muff several decades ago. "Gussie gave it to me shortly after we were married," she said proudly. "With all the political unrest that was going on at that time, he wanted me to be able to protect myself. It is a Belgian double-barrel percussion pistol."

"May I?" asked Reynard. Mamma handed him the handgun.

"Goodness! It looks like a miniature cannon!" Christine exclaimed.

"How old is this, Madame? I would hazard a guess that it was made in the '40s," Reynard said as he examined the weapon, admiring the craftsmanship.

"At least it's not as old as this," Anatole chipped in, pointing to the musket.

"These may be all well and good for scaring off a simple burglar, Mme Valérius," Reynard remarked, "but I'm not sure these will be of much use in dealing with the men we may be facing."

"_Ja,_ I understand what you mean. That's why I bought myself one of these." She held out a newer pinfire revolver. "This is much more efficient," she said, proudly displaying the gun for all to see.

"Do you have anything else in those pockets?" Erik raised his eyebrows, not having suspected that Anna Valérius had her own personal arsenal. "What were you planning, Mamma? A revolution?"

-0-0-0-

Anatole and Reynard suggested that Erik take the women out back and give them some shooting lessons while they remained inside, keeping an eye on the road.

"The musket was given to me by a kindly old veteran shortly after I arrived in Perros, many years ago," Mamma was explaining to Erik as the three of them strolled out into the yard. "His name was Pierre. He was such a dear, old man, a veteran of The Emperor's 'Old Guard.' Told me he fought at Waterloo. I think he was rather sweet on me. That's why he gave me his old weapon. Said I should keep it, so I would be able to protect myself while living alone."

"I never knew about this, Mamma," Christine said. "Is Pierre still alive? Have I ever met him?"

Mamma shook her head. "No. Pierre passed away many years ago. He had no family that I ever knew of. I promised him I would always take care of his grave. And I do."

Once in the yard, Erik pulled the small bench off to the side, and placed some sticks atop the stone fence at the other end of the yard to be used as targets. Mamma spread an old tablecloth over the bench, and put the ammunition she had brought with her on top of it.

"Mamma, if you allow me to demonstrate?" Erik said, sitting down as he held the double-barrel percussion pistol in both hands. "First, we must make sure the gun is not loaded." He pointed the muzzle into the air, in a safe direction, and squeezed the trigger. "Once we know that it is safe, you extract the ramrod. Then, place the pistol like so—"

"Give me that," she said, taking the gun from him. "Do you think I would keep one of these in my home if I did not know how to use it?" She promptly loaded and fired the piece, blowing the end of the barrel like a circus sharpshooter after a performance.

Christine was not as adept with firearms as Mamma. "I think I may need some private lessons," she said suggestively to Erik.

"Hand guns or the long gun?" he asked.

"The long gun, of course," she grinned as she cocked an eyebrow in his direction.

Erik complied, and the old musket was brought out. "Do you mind? Here, let me help you adjust your position." He stood behind her and placed his hands on her shoulders, gently easing her into the correct shooting stance.

She turned her head and looked back at him, a saucy smile playing upon her face. "What's wrong with my position?"

"Nothing. It might not be as...pleasant as it will be if you do...this," he said, pushing her hips slightly forward.

A sigh escaped her lips. "You're right. That's much better."

Erik cleared his throat. "Please, pay attention. This is very serious."

"I am being serious," she teased, leaning her weight against him. She heard Erik respond with a snort.

"Relax and bend your knees slightly. Don't lock them."

"Why?"

"Because, I said so."

"And if I don't, are you going to punish me again?"

He rolled his eyes. "If you lock your knees, the recoil might push you down on your...on your..."

"My…what?" she asked innocently.

"Your…assets."

"My assets?"

He paused, clearing his throat again. Had the temperature gone up that much in such a short amount of time? "Uhm . . . Where were we?"

"We were discussing my assets."

He looked over at Mamma, who was pulling some weeds from her newly planted vegetable garden, but he suspected she was, in truth, listening to everything he and Christine were saying. Pointing in her direction, he said softly, "We . . . we need to remain serious, Christine."

She tsked. "Oh, don't worry. Mamma doesn't mind if you reprimand me when I'm being willful."

"Ha!" he exclaimed rather louder than he had meant to. Lowering his voice, he went on. "You? Willful? I would never have thought that. Enough silliness; let us return to our lesson." Demonstrating the proper way to hold the antique firearm, he explained, "Focus on the tip of the bayonet, there, at the end of the barrel. You should be able to see the target, but it will be blurry." He placed the musket in her hands so that it was pointing towards the target, then moved to her right and slightly behind her so that if she was pushed back by the recoil, he could steady her and take the weight of the musket off her hands.

"Blurry," she murmured. "Like how you look when I open my eyes when we're kissing." She laughed quietly when she heard Erik choke back a cough.

"When you…you open your...?"

"I don't do it all the time." She shrugged off the groaning noises he was making. "Oh, very well." She faced the target and took a deep breath.

Standing behind her, he repeated, "Focus on the…"

"Erik, this...this gun is enormous. I'm not sure I can accommodate it."

"You're being a little minx," he whispered in her ear. Louder, he said, "Of course you can. All it takes is practice. Try this," he said, bracing her with one hand on her right shoulder to keep her from scrunching it up, and placed his left on the small of her back for balance.

"Oh," she cooed, "I like how it feels when you touch me." He said nothing, but remained perfectly still. "Erik? Are you going to give me my lesson?" she prompted when he did not respond.

He blinked a couple of times; momentarily forgetting what it was they were doing. "I'll give you a lesson," he murmured so that only she could hear what he was saying. Then louder, for Mamma's sake, "Yes . . . uh . . . place the tip of your finger on the trigger. Don't worry; it won't go off until you pull it."

"Are you sure?"

"I'm sure. There's no such thing as . . . an accidental discharge."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, of course. I . . . I'm in complete control. Nothing will . . . discharge until you're ready for it to."

With the musket in the proper position, she aimed down the tip of the bayonet and looked at the target, her finger on the trigger. "Very well, I'm ready."

"Right," he said, clearing his throat. "Squeeze gently."

"I'm sorry, Erik. I didn't catch what you said."

"Squeeze gently. You want to use a slow and steady pressure."

He was close enough for her to feel his breath, hot and moist, on the back of her neck. "I'm not sure I'll like this, Erik," she said, showing him the reddened tip of her first finger. "I didn't know it would hurt."

"With slow and steady pressure, you may find that it yields with little or no pain. When done properly, it is quite pleasant. In fact, you may find that you like it."

"What of the . . . discharge?"

"The discharge," he repeated, his voice barely a whisper. "A flash of light, some noise, and then . . ."

Christine put down the musket and turned, taking Erik in her arms. "Enough! Shut up and kiss me."

-0-0-0-

Later that afternoon, Reynard d'Aubert received a wire from one of his Paris associates.

"What does it say?" asked Erik.

"Alphonse Barbier has been found dead. Murdered. Gérard Gaultier has disappeared. Fournier, too. It appears that our time for preparation is limited."

-0-0-0-

**Author's Notes:**

The term "chess prophylaxis" is 6an homage to chess grandmaster Aron Nimzovich, "The father of Hypermodern Chess Theory." A prophylactic move in chess stops the opponent from taking action in a certain area for fear of some type of reprisal.

_There is a candle in your heart, ready to be kindled. There is a void in your soul, ready to be filled. You feel it, don't you?_ – This is from a teaching by Rumi, the 13th century Sufi mystic. He's actually talking about inviting God into one's heart, but Lizzy thought they would make appropriate parting words from Aref to Erik, and I agreed.

The French 1777 Model Infantry Musket was the last in a long line of modifications to the 1728 model French Infantry Musket. Some of the unique elements of this model are the finger ridges on the trigger guard, the brass frizzen, and the cheek piece carved in the stock's butt with a straighten frizzen cover and slightly different front band. The .66 calibre barrel is 44¾ inches long and the musket's total length is 60 inches. As for North America, it would have seen limited service in the later part of the American Revolution. This musket eventually saw service with Napoleon's infantry during the 1st Empire.

Pinfires were revolutionary until rimfire and centerfire ammunition was developed. The last of them were made around 1890. They weren't the latest technology during Mamma's time, but they bridge the gap between the musket, the percussion pistol, and Reynard's revolver. Casimir Lefaucheaux was a Parisian gunsmith who, in 1836, developed a hinged-frame breech-loading shotgun, which is the ancestor of all double guns. In 1854, he patented a breech-loading pinfire revolver, which became the French Navy's standard issue weapon and was later widely adopted throughout Europe. Later Eugene Lefaucheux of Paris was granted US Patent # 805 on March 26, 1861. The Lefaucheux French Dragoon revolver which was 6-shot, 7.5" round to octagon barrel in .4725 caliber pinfire and marked Lefaucheux Brevete was used to some extent in the American Civil War. These French revolvers were copied and sold by Belgium.


	43. Gone to Market

Get those cans of whoop$$ ready. I have a feeling our favorite characters are going to need them!

-0-0-0-

**Chapter 40  
Gone to Market**

_Thursday, April 21, 1881  
Mamma's House_

After almost four days, everyone was on a first name basis with everyone else. If it were not for the anxiety over what Raoul's hirelings were up to, it would have been like one big, happy family get-together. The small house may have been a bit overcrowded, with some folks sleeping upstairs and some folks down, but all in all, everyone was getting along splendidly.

Christine could not help but notice that change in Erik as well. He was at ease around Anatole and Reynard, and since that Sunday evening when they had arrived with their disturbing news, when he had spent the evening talking to them in the parlor without once realizing he had not been wearing his mask, he had not worn it again. This had not been an easy decision for Erik; on the contrary, it was one of the hardest he had ever made in his life.

That Sunday evening, after the rest of the household had retired, he and Christine had discussed the matter at great length. Both came to the conclusion that if he were ever going to enjoy living a normal life, then allowing himself the freedom of not hiding behind a mask while within the confines of his home was where he needed to start, and Christine assured him that for as long as he remained here, this was his home, too. There were still times when he felt awkward, when against his better knowledge he expected to find either Anatole or Reynard gawking or staring. But of course, such a thing never happened. If he thought it odd, all he had to do was remember the night of the bal masqué, when Raoul had torn away his mask and Anatole had handed it back to him without ever batting an eyelash.

-0-0-0-

An unexpected but much appreciated calm was settling over the house, a calm that allowed its occupants to relax – if only for brief periods of time. Until they were certain that the crisis was past, however, it was agreed upon that no one was to leave the house without consulting the others, and under no circumstances was anyone to leave alone. There was just one hitch to this plan – Mamma's larder was running low. Like Old Mother Hubbard's, her cupboards were becoming quite bare, for the simple fact that no one had planned on five people living there for an extended period of time. Up until now, they had been getting by on what was in the house, making do with such staples as Mamma had on hand and the provisions she had stored in the root cellar – jars of meats, fish, fruit and vegetables that had been put up last fall. But those supplies were running low.

Looking around the kitchen, Mamma frowned. "But you won't know what to get," she said, a small pout on her lips.

Anatole suspected that the enforced confinement in her own house was making Mamma a little edgy. "That's why you will write a list," he explained patiently, trying to keep his own exasperation from coming through in his voice. "If you need something from the market, put it on the list. If another day goes by with nothing happening, and if circumstances will permit, I'll make the trip into town and get whatever provisions we need."

"You will go alone? Why? I always do my own shopping."

Anatole shook his head and tried using reason. God love the dear woman, but she could be as stubborn as a mule sometimes. "Under ordinary circumstances, yes. But these are hardly ordinary. It will be much safer and faster if I were to go the market by myself. You know how Erik and Christine would fret if you went with me."

Anna Valérius snorted and huffed, then at last gave in. "Very well. Where's that paper?"

-0-0-0-

It had been a busy day, with the men busy securing the shutters and checking the trap lines while taking turns keeping an eye on the road and surrounding countryside. No one had seen the mysterious passerby since yesterday, but that was hardly a sign that the danger had lessened. Erik was heading for the bench, intending on taking a brief rest when he nearly stumbled over the trip line they'd finished putting in place. With the old tin cans attached to the wire, it would alert them if someone tried to approach the house unannounced.

"Damned trip line," Erik mumbled as he took a set on the bench. He looked up and saw Anatole had witnessed his clumsiness. "Fooled even myself, and I'm the one who set it," he grinned sheepishly.

"May I?" Anatole asked as he joined Erik. Sitting next to him on the bench, Anatole closed his eyes and leaned his head back as he inhaled deeply, enjoying the wonderful country air. "You look exhausted," he said when he opened his eyes again, concerned at the sight of dark smudges under Erik's eyes. It was obvious the man hadn't been getting much sleep of late. "Why don't you go upstairs and get some rest?"

It galled Erik that he was still not quite as strong as he had hoped he would be by this time. "And leave the two of you down here to do all the work? There are still the shutters on the lower floor to be secured, not to mention making sure all the trip lines are in place. Then there are the tools to take care of, and…"

"We can handle those things without you for a few hours," Anatole admonished. "You can't fool me, Erik. You have been doing the lion's share of staying up at night, keeping watch. It's beginning to show."

"Garron's right, you know," added Reynard.

Erik could feel himself getting irritable, and scowled at the two of them. "I didn't realize I had so many nurses," he groused.

"And he's not nearly as good looking as Christine." Anatole winked at Erik, nudging him with his elbow.

Erik found it hard to stay cross at their good-natured ribbing, and the three of them broke out in laughter. "It could be that our fox," as he often called Reynard these days, a play on the detective's name, "is still smarting from our last chess match. I wouldn't be surprised if he wants me out of the way so that he can work on his game before we have a rematch."

Reynard pulled a cheroot from his vest pocket and lit up, taking pleasure in the aroma of the tobacco. "Honing my skills to your level of play will require more than a couple of hours. Go in and get some rest," he urged as Erik stifled another yawn. "It's a wonder you can keep your eyes open. You needn't worry. This baritone and I can keep things under control."

"If you'd like," added Anatole with a sly smile, "we can send Christine up to tuck you in."

"Stop that, Garron," Reynard chided playfully. "Can't you see you're embarrassing the poor man?"

Erik tried to ignore the fact that he could feel a flush rising from his neck and onto his cheeks.

"Get in there and take a nap," insisted Anatole. "Even a former opera ghost needs his rest." He laughed softly as he got up from the bench and walked over to the shed, taking the shovel with him, leaving Erik and Reynard alone.

"By the way," the detective said, "you'll never guess what I found in my pocket a couple weeks ago. The most brilliant green stone I've ever seen. I had it appraised and was informed that it is of the most excellent quality. You wouldn't know anything about it, would you?" He exhaled, blowing a ring of smoke.

"However would I have gotten my hands on such a bauble?" Erik said with feigned innocence.

Reynard chuckled. "Indeed. It must been placed there by mistake. Perhaps when I sent the suit out to be cleaned?"

Erik fought back another yawn. "It is not wise to question good fortune, monsieur…unless, of course, you suspect foul play is involved."

The detective slapped the former opera ghost congenially on the back. "Garron's right. You should get some rest. You can hardly keep your eyes open. Fatigue will not help our cause."

"I defer to your good judgment, sir," Erik smiled wearily, then entered the house and made his way to his room.

-0-0-0-

"Have either of you seen Mamma?" Christine came rushing out the back door. She had looked high and low inside, but found no sign of her foster mother. Not finding her inside, Christine thought that perhaps she had come outside to see Reynard and Anatole.

Worried looks passed between the two men, then Anatole answered. "The last time I saw her was over an hour ago. It was about the time we sent Erik inside to get some rest. Mamma was heading into the cellar as I recall, looking for something to prepare for our evening meal."

"Well, she's nowhere to be found," she said louder than she intended. She took a moment to catch her breath. "I've looked in all the rooms," she told them, "upstairs and down. I've even been down into the cellar, worried that she had fallen and injured herself. But she's not there. She's gone!"

Reynard strode over to Christine's side. "Is it possible that the two of you simply bypassed each other without knowing it?"

She swallowed hard, shaking her head no. "It's a small house. I don't think that could have happened."

He walked her over to the bench and sat her down. "Let's not jump to any hasty conclusions." He turned to Anatole. "Go inside and double check."

Anatole dashed into the kitchen and spotted a piece of paper that had fallen onto the floor. It was a note that Mamma had left, apparently dislodged from either table or countertop where it had originally been left.

_Gone to market.  
Will be back shortly.  
Mamma_

Rejoining the others back outside, he showed them the note. "I'm going after her. Christine, you stay here with Reynard. Oh, and you'd better let Erik know what has happened."

"You will be careful, won't you?" she said, trying to put on a brave face, agitated that Mamma was going to get herself in trouble.

"Try not to worry. I'm sure everything's fine. I'm sure I'll find her on the road. I'll escort her back, kicking and screaming if necessary." Setting out at a trot, Anatole mumbled to himself, "Someone's got to take care of that woman. She doesn't realize how dangerous these men are!"

-0-0-0-

Halfway to Perros, Anatole came upon Mamma returning from the market. She smiled and waved at him. "Ah! Anatole! What a surprise. Did you come to help an old woman carry her purchases home?"

Her smile was so disarming that for a moment, he nearly forgot to scold her for taking such foolish chances. "What did you think you were doing?" he snapped, his worry and frustration coming out in his voice. "I'm sorry. I don't mean to speak harshly, but why did you do this? Do you not realize what could have happened?"

The older woman scowled playfully at him. "Young man," she said, grabbing hold of his arm, "I have taken care of myself for many years. Besides, we needed some meat for supper." She held up the bag hanging from her other arm.

"Thank goodness noth—" A shot rang out, and Anatole never finished his sentence. Mamma saw the most bewildered look on the young man's face.

"Anatole, what's wrong?" She watched, horrified, as he clutched his side and saw the blood spreading over his shirt and jacket and through his fingers.

He looked down at himself, then back at her. "I…I believe I've been shot," he said in disbelief, and crumpled to the ground.

Mamma dropped her bag knelt next to his prone form, shaking him, trying to get him to respond. She rolled him onto his back, hoping to see his eyes open. "Anatole!" she cried out. "Anatole!"

"Shuddup, old woman!"

She looked up. Two unkempt men were approaching, both brandishing guns. "What the hell did you shoot him for, Fournier?" one of the men shouted nervously at the other.

Mamma remained perfectly still, kneeling next to Anatole. It was hard to tell if he was dead or alive, there was so much blood. "Whatever you want, you can have it," she said. Very slowly, she reached into her pocket and took out what little money she had, carefully holding it out to them. "You are robbers, ja? Take what you want, but please leave us be. We will tell no one."

"You're damn right you'll tell no one," the other man, the apparent leader of the two, snarled at her. "Now shaddup!" He emphasized his words by pointing his gun at her head. "I oughtta jus' shoot you here an' get it over with."

"No!" the second man cried out as he rushed over and grabbed hold of man's arm, pointing the gun away from the Mamma.

"What the…? What's your problem, Gaultier?" his partner shot back with a baleful gaze.

Mamma froze inside. She had heard their names before. Reynard had once mentioned three names – Jean-Claude Fournier, Gérard Gaultier, and Alphonse Barbier – as the men who had treated Erik so brutally. These must be two of the three. If so, was the other nearby? Her mind churned. Christine and Erik needed to be warned. But how? Poor Anatole, he was lying on the ground in front of her, wounded, maybe dead, and these men were holding a gun on her. If they could so casually shoot a man without warning or reason, there was no reason for her to think they would treat her any differently. She took a deep breath, trying to calm the sound of her heart pounding in her ears. She had been in difficult situations before, and recalled facing down an angry mob during the political upheavals and riots back in '48. She had kept her wits about her then; she would do the same now.

"You…you shot him too soon." Gaultier was arguing with Fournier, pointing towards Anatole with his foot.

"I shoulda known you'd go soft on me," Fournier snarled.

"No. No, that's not it," Gaultier countered. "He's nothing but dead weight now. Same thing if you shoot the old woman out here. This ain't the place to be doin' this. We don't need bodies lying out in the open."

Fournier narrowed his eyes as he pondered what to do about Gaultier. Then he nodded. "Fer once yer makin' sense." He rounded on Mamma, grabbing hold of her by her upper arms and pulling her roughly to her feet. He shoved his face into hers, his rancid breath blowing hot against her cheeks and making her sick to her stomach. "All right, _grand-mère_," he sneered, making the word sound like a curse, "you get hold of 'im an' you drag 'im over there." He indicated a copse of trees to the side of the road. "You do that an' you get to live a few minutes longer."

Mamma reluctantly did as she was told, taking hold of Anatole's hands and dragging him as carefully as she could off to the side of the road. It was hard to look at the poor man's ashen face, at the crimson stain that covered the front of his shirt, to feel the coldness of his hands as she held them in hers. She stared defiantly at the two thugs. She considered pleading, begging for mercy, telling them that Anatole's weight was too much for an old woman such as she, but from the looks on their faces, she knew that her words would only fall upon deaf ears.

Angered welled up inside. She fought back the urge to spit in their faces, to shout at them that if they wanted to kill her, they would have to do their own dirty work; that she was not going to make their job easier for them. Instead, she thought to bide her time and said a silent prayer – for Anatole, for herself, and for the others back at the house.

Once they were under the cover of the trees, she sat next to Anatole's inert form and said nothing. She held his hand the way a mother would hold a son's hand, and prepared herself to face whatever came next. "You hang on, Anatole," she spoke in soft whisper, squeezing his hand, willing him to know what she was saying. Not taking her eyes from their assailants, she very slowly slid her other hand into her pocket…and waited.

"Why don't you go on ahead, Fournier," she heard the other man say. Was it her imagination, or was Gaultier jumpier than the other? Maybe there was an opportunity here. Maybe she could talk to him, help him see the error of his way. With the proper inducement, of course.

"I'll take care of these two," he was saying. "I'll make sure no one finds their bodies, least not right away. Then I'll join you at the house."

"Fine. Jus' make sure they're well hidden. An' cover up that blood out there in the road." Then Fournier picked up the rucksack he had dropped earlier and left Mamma alone to face Gaultier.

-0-0-0-


	44. Approaching Storm

**Author's Note:** I'm not sure how long it will be till the next chapter. I want to make sure it is as good as it can be, that the actions planned are logical as well as exciting. So if it takes me a bit longer to write it, I hope you will understand and be patient. Thanks as always for all your support!

HDKingsbury

-0-0-0-

**Chapter 41  
****Approaching Storm**

_Valérius house near sunset_

Ever since she had wakened Erik and informed him of Mamma's having left the house, Christine had been on pins and needles. Erik understood her fears and shared her concerns, but did not want her to dwell upon them. If trouble was coming their way tonight, they needed to be at their sharpest. Giving way to rampant fears was the last thing any of them needed to do.

Christine pushed back the curtains and looked out the window for what must have been the hundredth time, while Erik stood quietly at her side. No matter how many times she looked, there was still no sign of either Mamma or Anatole. "They've been gone too long," she whispered, hating to give voice to her worries. "It's getting close to sunset. They should have been home by now."

Though nightfall was still a good half an hour away, it was already growing murky outside. Heavy, low clouds were rolling in from the west, prematurely darkening the skies, and an onshore wind was setting up, blowing a mist inland as it gained in strength.

Erik reached out and held her hand. "It will be a black night," he said ominously.

"What do you mean?" she asked, not sure if he was being metaphorical or literal.

"Those clouds." He pointed to the western skies. "Looks like a storm is brewing. I wouldn't be surprised if it rained tonight. It will be black with no stars or moon to illuminate the landscape." The perfect night on which to launch an attack, he thought to himself. At least, that's what I would do if I were in Fournier's place.

"And do you think that means…" she started, but could not finish her thought.

"It could mean nothing at all," Erik reassured her, offering her a smile. "But with a storm approaching, I think it would be best if we bolted the shutters and drew all the curtains, and do so now rather than later." He didn't mention which storm he was referring to – the one that nature was sending their way, or the potential of finally confronting their enemies.

Christine nodded her head in agreement. "What is Reynard doing?" she asked, trying to make small talk. "I saw him go outside a short while ago."

"He's checking the perimeter, making sure our trip lines are set."

In spite of the situation, Christine chuckled. She saw the quizzical look on Erik's face. "I know it's not really funny, but all this talk of checking perimeters and setting trip lines, why it sounds as if we're at war."

"I know," he said, giving her a hug, not wanting to break that physical bond with her just yet by letting go of her. "I suppose that's because we are at war – of sorts." He sighed, forcing himself to relax. "Well, those shutters aren't going to shut themselves," he said lightly. He gazed thoughtfully at her, gently touching her honey-gold locks, admiring her flawless complexion. "When this is over," he said longingly, "the first item on the agenda is to see the priest about a wedding date."

Christine could feel her cheeks burn, and was grateful for the lack of light in the house. "Why don't you close the shutters," she said, fanning herself lightly with her apron. "I'll go to the kitchen and see what I can scrounge up for supper."

"Don't light any lamps or fires, though." He saw the concerned look on her face and explained, "If we are being watched, if our enemies are indeed planning on making their move tonight, we don't need to provide them with any signals as to where we are or what we're doing. If the house is dark, maybe they'll think we've gone, and will leave us alone."

Christine gave him another quick hug before heading for the kitchen. "You were right, Erik. We should have forced Mamma to come with us out of the house."

"If we don't face them here, then we would simply have to face them somewhere else," said Reynard, who was coming in from outside. "We can't change what has already happened. I know your strengths, Christine. I've seen them before."

"You needn't worry about me, Monsieur Fox," she teased gently. "I'm not going to buckle under the pressure."

Reynard gave her a smile. "I know you won't. Besides, knowing Anatole, he probably came upon your foster mother on the road and has taken her back into town rather than risk their walking these back roads after dark, especially with this storm coming." At that moment, a gust of wind shook the shutters as if to add emphasis to Reynard's words.

Erik headed towards the stairway. "I'll go upstairs and make sure everything is ready."

"A while ago, I thought I heard something," Christine said apprehensively. "Something that sounded like a gunshot." She did not care for the looks on their faces as the men exchanged glances. Placing her hands on her hips, she stared down Erik. "Don't patronize me because I'm a woman. If that was a gunshot, you would tell me, wouldn't you?"

He gulped. "To be honest, I thought it sounded like one, too, Christine; but, it could have been anything. It might have been a hunter."

"With a storm coming in?"

"If not a hunter, then a clap of distant thunder, or the booming sound the waves sometimes make when they crash upon rocks," Erik said.

She paused for a moment, weighing his words. "All right," she said decisively. "Let's batten down the hatches."

-0-0-0-

_Under the copse of trees in the fading light of sunset_

Daylight was fading as the sky turned menacingly dark. Mamma had seen these kinds of storms roll in from the ocean before, know that it would come in quickly and that soon, they would be at the mercy of the elements, with no shelter. She could only pray that the others had remained within the relative safety of the house.

Mamma sat next to Anatole. She was relieved to see he was still breathing, though his face was ashen and his hands were like ice. He needed medical attention, and needed it quickly. Keeping one eye on their attacker, she ripped some of the fabric from her petticoat and turned it into a makeshift bandage. Her hands trembled slightly as she unbuttoned his vest and shirt, carefully pulling the bloodstained fabric away from the wound. She examined the wound as best as circumstances would allow, trying to determine its severity. Although she couldn't be certain in the failing light, it appeared that the bullet had struck a rib and ricocheted back out rather than puncturing a lung. Silently praying that there were no internal injuries, she carefully placed the bandage over the wound, tying it in place as best she could. Looking at his face, she felt a surge of relief as his eyelids fluttered open.

"Wh—what happened?" he whispered faintly, trying to fight back the pain and nausea.

Gently, she brushed his hair off his forehead. "Shh, don't try to talk or move," she said quietly. She tilted her head towards Gaultier, who was pacing nervously in front of them. "We are this man's prisoners. We must do as he says."

Gaultier stopped in mid-stride and turned to the two of them. "I didn't want to do this," he said frantically, waving his gun in the air as he gesticulated wildly with his hands. Mamma ducked as he swept her with the muzzle. "I'm not a murderer. You must believe me."

"You're asking an awful lot of us with you standing here, brandishing your gun in our faces. No, you're not a murderer," Mamma spat back at him, "but you think nothing of beating a man half to death. You must have felt very brave, taking advantage of a man who was chained like a wild animal in a cage, a man who could not fight back."

"Easy, Mamma," Anatole said hoarsely, his mouth feeling like it was filled with cotton. What he wouldn't give for a drink of water. He licked his lips in an attempt to alleviate the dryness. "We mustn't upset our host." He gave a pained chuckle.

"What are you talking about?" the gunman demanded. "How does an old woman like you know what happened?" His pacing increased, and he was sweating profusely, wiping his brow with the back of his sleeve.

Mamma shot him a grim smile. "Lucky guess?"

"Damn it all the hell! What do you know!" he insisted, feeling his control over the situation spiraling out of control.

"You know very well what I'm talking about, M. Gaultier," Mamma said, her anger getting the better of her. "I may be an old woman, but I'm not stupid. Do you think what you did would remain undiscovered? We," – she said, emphasizing the "we" to let the gunman know others were aware – "know all about you and your companions, and what you did to Erik. I'm not referring only to Anatole and myself." She forced herself to stare down Gaultier, to show him she was not afraid.

"Damn Fournier!" he shouted to the skies. He returned Mamma's stare, but there was fear written all over his face. "You don't understand." His voice was almost a whine. "If I don't do as Fournier says, he'll kill me."

"You expect me to believe this? A man like him has such power over a brawny man like you?" she said with disdain. "Well? Does he?" She felt a feeble hand reach over and grip hers.

"Mamma, please," Anatole pleaded weakly.

Mamma looked down at him, her heart breaking as she watched his face scrunch up in pain. She took his hands in hers, rubbing them gently as she tried to warm them. He felt cold and clammy, and there was a bluish tinge to his face. She put a hand to his neck and felt for his pulse. It was weak and rapid, as was his breathing.

"I'm sorry, Anatole," she whispered, taking off her shawl and covering him with it to keep him warm. Then she leaned forward and kissed him on the forehead. "I didn't mean to upset you. Lie still. We'll get you help. I promise you."

He swallowed hard, then blinked his eyes to let her know he understood. It was hard to think, hard to form words just now. He needed to rest, to gather what strength he still had should Mamma require his aid.

"Shut up, old woman" Gaultier yelled at her, and resumed his pacing. He looked out at the approaching storm, his back momentarily to her. "I'm beginning to think it won't matter what I do; when this is over he'll kill me, too," he mumbled to himself. "He's like a rabid dog. He's bound and determined to kill the freak and take the girl. The vicomte wants her for himself, but I doubt Fournier's going to want to give her up. He's already said he plans on sampling the wares first."

While Gaultier stood with his back to them, Anatole tried to squeeze Mamma's hand as best he could, motioning with his head for her to look in his pocket. Mamma nodded slightly. She knew what he was trying to tell her.

"Then don't go through with this," she said calmly to Gaultier. She could see he was facing a fork in the road, and wished she knew more about this man and could have a better idea of how to appeal to him. If she said the wrong thing, he would simply go along with Fournier. But, if she said the right thing, perhaps he would find it in himself to help her and Anatole. After all, he was right about one thing – he was not the one who pulled the trigger. She could only pray she was nudging him in the right direction.

"Fournier's not here now. It's time you made your own decisions. Are you going to go along with whatever Fournier says, become his willing slave, or are you going to be your own man?" She thought for a moment. If appealing to his humanity didn't work, perhaps greed would. "If it is a matter of money, we can pay you more than Fournier."

Gaultier laughed a mirthless laugh. He came closer to where she was sitting and stood next to her, all the while looking off in the direction that Fournier had taken. Running his fingers through his hair, he tried to think. He turned to say something to Mamma, a weary grimace that might have once passed for a smile on his face, but the words never came out. Gérard Gaultier found himself staring down the barrel of a gun.

Mamma had leapt up from the ground, pulling out the gun she had placed in her pocket before she had left the house. She had bided her time till she felt circumstances favored her. Bearing down on him slowly, she held the gun firmly in front of her with both hands. She made sure she maintained a safe distance – close enough to fire with high probability of successfully hitting him, yet far enough away that he could not easily grab hold of her and use her as a human shield. Her revolutionary background was serving her well, and the old woman suddenly didn't look so old. She stopped and drew herself up to her full height. The look of deadly seriousness on her face more than compensated for her lack of stature.

"Now, monsieur, I shall give you two choices. You can continue helping Fournier, or you can throw your lot in with us. I know how to use this," she cocked the trigger for emphasis, "and have no qualms over shooting down a mad dog. Neither does Anatole."

Gaultier looked down and saw Garron propped up against the trunk of the tree. He was holding his pistol in his right hand while bracing it with his left hand. The wounded man was weak and pale, but had the earnest look of gritty determination on his face. "I may not be in the best shape right now, monsieur," he said slowly, "but I suspect that between the two of us, we can get at least one good shot at you. I suggest you listen to what the woman has to say."

Gaultier understood what Anna Valérius was really saying – _You can help us, or I will shoot you down_. He took a deep breath as he collected his thoughts. He was no saint. Far from it. But he had no use these days for Fournier, either. A gust of wind rattled the branches of the trees overhead, howling like a pack of demons as it whistled through the boulders. Taking another breath, he closed his eyes, considering his options. Then he turned his gaze to Mamma. "What do you want me to do?" he said, his shoulders sagging as if in defeat.

"Lay down your weapons, and step away from them. That includes the knife sticking out of your boot, as well as the second gun you've got in your back pocket." He was amazed at how alert she was, and did as he was told, meek as a lamb. Slowly, he placed all the weapons on the ground and stepped back as told. He watched numbly as she picked it up both guns and placed them in her pocket, then slipped the knife into her own boot top. "I know how to use one of these, too," she said, holding up the knife. "Have you ever seen a pig slaughtered? No? Well then, now's not the time to start…if you know what's good for you."

She stepped over to Anatole and placed one of the two newly acquired guns into his pocket. "Here. You can't have too many of these," she said with a wicked grin. "Just be careful."

The corner of his mouth twitched up a little as he tried to smile. "I'm familiar with how to use one of these," he said quietly but firmly.

She returned her attention to Gaultier. "I want you to stand over there," she said, indicating a tree about six meters from where they were standing. "And Anatole, I want you to keep your gun trained on our prisoner."

Weak as he was, the baritone smiled with grim determination. "Not a problem," he said. "I'd love any excuse to pull this trigger."

-0-0-0-

_Near the Valérius house just past sunset_

Fournier stayed off the road, avoiding the risk of being seen by any of the locals who might be out on a blustery night like this one. He moved stealthily among the shadows of the rocky outcroppings and trees as he made his way to the Valérius house. The sun had gone down, and the impending storm continued its onward progress. A biting wind made him wish he'd worn something warmer, and the occasional spits of rain made him wonder if it wouldn't be better to wait for another night to do his job. But no, that would not work. Once the others in the house realized the old woman and the other man weren't returning, they would be alerted to the danger. Chances were, they were already missing their friends, suspecting that something was up.

Finally seeing the house that he and Gaultier had been eyeing throughout the past few days, Fournier set himself up in a sheltered space under a granite ledge across the road and about a hundred meters from the house. Setting down the rucksack, he checked its contents. There were a couple of tins of kerosene as well as a collection of rags and bottles. Also inside was a box of ammunition for the two pistols he carried. In addition to the pistols and the firebomb materials, he carried a couple of knives tucked conveniently into his boots.

Even with the overcast skies, Fournier knew he had to wait until it was as dark as possible before sending in his opening volleys. Making himself comfortable, he started wondering about his partner. Where the hell is Gaultier? He should have arrived by now. He continually scanned the road and surrounding countryside, seeking some sort of sign the other was approaching.

Then he shook his head in disgust. Was the fool was actually burying the bodies? Settling in for the duration, Fournier pulled another bottle out of his rucksack, this one filled with rotgut whiskey. As a fire was out of the question, the whiskey was the next best way to keep warm.

-0-0-0-

_Inside the Valérius house_

"Erik," Reynard whispered. "Look here." The detective stood by the window, pointing to a spot across the road through a crack in the shutters. He and Erik were upstairs, in Erik's room, keeping an eye on the road in the hope that they would see Anatole and Mamma coming home late. Reynard had his service revolver handy – just in case.

Squinting as he focused, Erik slowly shook his head. "Sorry, I don't see anything," he replied quietly. "What was it?"

"I'm not sure. The way this wind is blowing, it might have nothing more than the shadow from one of these tree branches. Then again…." He didn't finish his thought. He didn't need to. Erik understood.

Christine returned from the kitchen, bringing with her a tray of cheeses and bread for the three of them to eat, along with a pitcher of water and a couple of earthenware mugs. "I'd have brought us some goat's milk, but there's none left in the ice box." She set the tray down on the dresser. "What are you two looking at?" she asked, noticing they'd both been standing by the shuttered window.

"Only shadows," Erik said, turning to her and smiling. He held an arm out to her, and held her close as she joined them at the window. "We're watching the storm coming in. There's lightning off to the west." Just as he said that, a streak of blue-white light forked down from the sky, followed several seconds later by the low roll of distant thunder.

Christine shivered. "I hope that's all that comes in tonight."

"Amen to that," said Reynard fervently. Amen to that."

-0-0-0-

A brief note for those of us who are metric-challenged, 6 meters approx. 19.7 feet.


	45. Inferno

I've written and rewritten this so many times, it's starting to make me cross-eyed. All right, so maybe I'm exaggerating a little. So, here's where Fournier gets really down and dirty. Thanks, as always, to Lizzy for her invaluable help. I hope I've corrected all the continuity issues, grammatical issues, and in general have a chapter here that you will all enjoy.

Oh, and a caution for vulgar language. Fournier really is a terrible potty-mouth!

_HDKingsbury_

* * *

**Chapter 42  
Inferno**

**-0-0-0-**

_Outside the Valérius house_

Jean-Claude Fournier fumed, secure in his hiding place among the underbrush and weeds across from the house. Almost an hour had passed since he'd left Gaultier to clean up the loose ends, and still the jackass had not made it the three and a half kilometers to the Valérius house.

A quick look about the premises confirmed what he had noted during earlier strolls past the place – two doors, one in front, the other in back, and a second floor with no exterior exits. If the place were to catch on fire, he mused, the folks inside would have to use one of the doors. Good. And if one or more of the doors were blocked? He practically rubbed his hands together in glee. That would be even better. Yes, that would work nicely with what he had in mind.

The stone fencing that circumscribed the property was an added bonus. Once he put his plan into motion, the fools inside would be forced to vacate the building through the front door. Fournier would set himself up behind that fence and when they came out, he'd pick them off at his leisure. Hell, a chicken couldn't live on that field with him positioned there. They could send an army and he'd be able to hold them off, safe and snug behind that wall.

Only one serious problem faced him tonight – the deteriorating weather. He glanced up at the overcast sky. The storm hadn't broken yet, but the wind was picking up. The air had grown cooler than he had anticipated. Tipping the whiskey bottle again, he let the liquid spread its warmth through his body. More lightning flashed off to the west, followed by low rumbles of thunder. If the rain came too soon, he would have to alter his plans, and he was in no mood to do so at this late date. He was primed and ready to go. Time to take care of Monsieur le Freak and the vicomte's lady. His lips curled in a pretense of a smile. Maybe he'd pump the songbird a few times, too. The malevolent grin grew across his stubble-covered face.

_Hell, I know how to show a lady a good time, nail her so hard she'll scream. Maybe I'll keep the gargoyle alive a little longer, make 'im watch. Yes, that's what I'll do. Fuck the bitch's brains out in front of 'im, show her what it's like to have a real man inside her. To hell with that pansy-assed vicomte an' what he says. He ain't here doin' the work. Besides, a man deserves a little bonus now an' then._

Would she struggle when he took her? He hoped so. He allowed himself the luxury of imagining what it would be like to feel the vicomte's woman struggle beneath him, all naked and sweaty. He hated it when women just lay and did nothing. He much preferred a woman who fought and kicked and clawed. Made taking them all the more fun. Just the thought of it aroused him. He reached down and scratched himself, resisting the urge to do more. Grinning wickedly, he took another pull on the whiskey bottle in celebration of his new plan. It was time to start moving.

He stared across the road at the dark and empty-looking house. It didn't look right. With its shutters latched, the windows looked vacant eyes of a dead man. Fournier frowned.

_Odd that nobody's lit any of the lamps. An' there ain't even the glow like from a fireplace._

Still, he was certain there were people inside. He and Gaultier had only encountered the old woman and one man on the road. That meant there should still be three inside. When they staked out the house the past couple of days, they tried to count how many were inside. Had there been four, or five?

_Dammit! I knew I shoulda asked the old woman how many were back here._ He shrugged. _Oh well, water under the bridge._

Then he saw it – a silhouette passing behind the shuttered windows. At least he thought it was a person's shadow. He looked harder, but whatever it was he had seen was gone. Did the occupants suspect something? Had they figured out that they would soon be under attack? He cursed under his breath.

_That shit-brained fool Gaultier may've been right. Shootin' the man an' the old woman might've tipped our hand._

Another blast of air rattled through the trees and brush. The dampness cut through the pea jacket an unsuspecting fisherman had conveniently left unattended.

"Damn that wind," he cursed to himself, then shook it off. "Oh well, nothin' like a little fire to warm things up. Hell yes, a nice roarin' fire'll make everyone all cozy." In the meantime, he would warm himself with another swig of whiskey. Tilting the bottle to his lips, he discovered it was empty. "Another dead soldier," he laughed grimly to himself as he tossed the bottle aside.

Once more he scanned the road for signs of Gaultier.

_What the hell's takin' 'im so long? The cretin would screw up a wet dream._

He could feel the frustration setting set in.

_How hard can it be to shoot an old lady an' a man who's half-dead already? The coward probl'y shit his pants an' left. I'm tired of waitin' on his ass._

He snorted in disgust. "I'll take care of 'im later," he said aloud. "Time to get the ball rollin'."

Keeping as low as possible, making his way on his hands and knees, Fournier skulked through the brush and grass towards the house.

-0-0-0-

_Inside the Valérius house_

Christine restlessly paced the parlor floor in the dark, rubbing her upper arms against the chill. With no fires burning or lamps lit, there was a decided chill in the house. The wind outside wasn't helping matters, either. It was hard to decide which she disliked more about the wind – the drafts inside the house, or its howling as it whipped around outside.

"Here. Why don't you use this?" Erik was in the parlor with her, had seen her in the dim shadows as she tried to warm herself. Picking up the crocheted afghan from the back of the sofa, he wrapped it around her shoulders, letting his hands linger on them. "This will be warmer than a sweater or a shawl."

"And bigger, too," she added, pulling the wool throw tight. "There's room enough for both of us under here."

"I heard that," Reynard said entering the room. "You two need to hurry up and get married. Shall I go for the priest tonight, or can you wait until morning?"

Erik stepped aside, affecting scorn at the remark.

"Does everything still look secure?" Christine cringed at asking such a foolish question, but she had to say something, anything. The tension of not knowing what happened to Mamma and Anatole was wearing her down. She needed some outlet or her nerves would snap at any moment.

The detective sat down in one of the chairs. The no fire rule was bothering him as well, only in his case it was because he could not light up one of his cheroots. No matter. He stuck an unlit one in his mouth, then promptly put it back in his pocket. It didn't have the same effect when it was unlit. "So far, so good. I just finished a check of the second story of the house again. Everything looks in ord—"

"What was that?" Erik interrupted. His keen hearing picked up an unwanted sound, that of tin cans rattling. Had a prowler tripped one of their makeshift alarms, or was it only another trick of the wind? They could not afford to take any chances. "Reynard, check the back windows," he instructed, keeping his voice low. If someone was lurking outside, he didn't want to risk their being overheard. "I'll check the front. Christine, you go in the hallway, away from any windows or doors."

"I know how to be quiet and sly. Didn't I use stealth to visit a certain opera ghost?" She likewise spoke in an under tone at him, but her annoyance could still be heard. Erik meant well, but she did not need to be treated like a fragile, porcelain doll.

A small chuckle came from Reynard as he headed towards the rear of the house. "She's right about that," he muttered to himself, smiling in spite of the danger.

"Please, Christine," Erik implored her. "Will you do this for me? It's not that I doubt your abilities. I've seen what Fournier is capable of doing. I need to know that you will be safe."

-0-

Peeking through the narrow slits of the shutters at the kitchen windows, Reynard could not make out anything definite. Between the darkness and the approaching storm, there were shadows that were constantly moving. For a moment, he thought he saw…something, but could not be sure. Was that the barest suggestion of a man's form? He rejoined the other two in the hallway.

"Well?" Erik asked.

Reynard shook his head. "I can't be certain. I think I saw something, but in this dark…" He left the rest unsaid.

Erik immediately took command of the little group. "Then we must assume the worst," he said. "We must assume that it is Fournier outside, and in all likelihood with his confederate, Gaultier. Get our weapons ready."

Christine grabbed the old musket from where it had been propped up against the wall. She saw the skeptical look on Erik's face. "If nothing else," she said, "I can use it as a club."

Reynard had his service revolver out, making sure it was loaded, when Erik stopped and sniffed the air. "Did either of you light something?"

"It's coming from the back." Reynard dashed to the kitchen and quickly returned. "The back door's on fire!" he shouted. "That's what the bastard must have been doing when he set off the alarm."

"There isn't a fire out front," Christine said. "Maybe we should…." The words were barely spoken when shots rang out, followed by a string of obscenities.

"Ya gonna jus' stay in there an' burn, ya misbegotten whoreson?"

Christine took hold of Erik's arm, and felt him grow tense. "It's him, isn't it? Fournier."

Erik only nodded.

_"Vous êtes une pomme de terre avec le visage d'un cochone d'inde,"_ she shouted indignantly at Fournier.

"You told him he's a potato with the face of a guinea pig?" Erik asked incredulously.

"I'm sorry. I don't usually talk like that," she said, not sounding the least bit apologetic.

"Sounded pretty insulting to me," Reynard said with eyebrows raised and a nonchalant hitch of the shoulders.

Fournier's taunting grew more inflammatory. "You got her in there with ya, the pretty young thing I been hearing so much about?" He laughed some more. It was a nauseating, ugly sound. "Christine, ain't it? I like that name. Always wanted to meet me a lady named Christine," he went on, making the word "lady" sound like an insult. "I kin hardly wait to make the acquaintance of the singer what's got our precious vicomte all riled up. Can't wait to find out you've got that's so special." He paused dramatically. "Ah...don't ya worry yer pretty li'l head, sweeting. It'll only hurt…when I want it to."

Another shot crashed through one of the parlor shutters, shattering the window, spraying glass shards and splinters through the air.

"Ask the dog-faced boy how gentle I kin be. Go on, ask him! Ask 'im how he just laid there an' took it. Really got off on it, he did. Come on, ya filthy bastard! I'm waitin' for you an' yer slut."

Christine's face blanched at the hideous insinuations. "Erik, what's he talking about?"

"Nothing," Erik said, his features looking as if they were etched in stone. "He's trying to goad us into doing something stupid."

"A shame about the face," Fournier yelled, the agitation in his voice becoming more pronounced. "What with the considerable plumbin' ya have. Have you shown it to yer lady yet? Well, have you?" He tsked a few times. "A fuckin' waste, I tell ya, a tragic waste of talent." He cackled loudly at his own sick joke.

"Christine, has yer lover told ya about the favor we did 'im? My friends an' I, we couldn't let 'im go to his grave without shagging a real woman, at least once in his life. An' this is the thanks we get for takin' pity on an ugly troll like him! You ungrateful bastard!" Another shot punctuated his tirade. "You oughta be on yer hands an' knees, thankin' me for what we did."

"I'm tired of listening to his filthy lies. Give me your gun, Reynard," Erik said, the calm of his voice belying the fury of his expression. Facing the front door, he shouted back, "I have something else in mind for you, Fournier, to repay you for the _kindness_ you showed me."

"What do you think you're going to do?" demanded Reynard.

"I'm going to eradicate vermin."

The detective refused. "Think, man! You said it yourself; he's trying to provoke us into behaving irrationally. He'll say anything to incite you. You have to be calm – for _her_ sake."

There was a loud _thunk_ as something struck the door, then another against the front shutters. These were followed almost immediately by the sound of breaking glass and the smell of kerosene. Flames began to lick around the doorjamb and shutters. Since he couldn't get them to come out by taunting them, Fournier had thrown homemade firebombs at the house to force its occupants into making rash actions.

"It appears our options have suddenly become quite limited." Reynard spoke urgently. "Go out the back and walk into a fire; go out the front and we have the same thing. Oh, and we mustn't forget our friend out there."

"Great," said Christine sarcastically. "You've told us what we can't do. Have you any suggestions as to what we can do?"

Erik looked at the stairs to the second floor. "I have an idea."

-0-0-0-

_On the road from Perros _

"What do you want me to do?"

Mamma stared at the man in front of her. She had some serious decision-making to do, and quickly. Anatole needed help – soon. The others back at the house needed to be warned. She was holding a gun on a deceitful, untrustworthy person. Should she accept this man's offer of help at face value? Would it not be better to tie him up to a tree? Shoot him?

"I don't know why I should trust you, monsieur…but I will," she said at last.

"Tell me what you want me to do," he said again. "I'm not going to turn on you, either of you." He looked down at Anatole sitting under the tree. "I didn't want to be part of this to begin with. I know you don't believe me, but it's the truth. Let me prove it to you."

Mamma nodded, more to herself than to Gaultier. "I need to get home and warn the others. Were you the only two, or is there another accomplice lying in wait for us?"

Gaultier shook his head. "No, it's just us two. Fournier killed Alphonse."

"Very well," she said, trying to formulate some manner of plan. "Anatole needs a doctor. There's a farm about ten minutes' walk from here. You can take this trail." She pointed out a footpath a couple meters to their left that led inland. "They won't know you, but they'll recognize my name. It's Anna Valérius. You tell them you were sent by Mamma Valérius. You bring them back here with you and help Anatole."

"I'll do it." Without further discussion, Gaultier took off at a trot in the direction of the farmhouse. Mamma watched as he retreated into the dark, praying to God that she had done the right thing. Another gust of wind blew as the frequency of lightning flashes increased. The storm was getting closer. Returning to Anatole, she took off her shawl and wrapped it around him to keep him warm.

"I'll be all right, Mamma," he said weakly.

"Yes, I'm sure you will," she replied, making a quick inspection of his wound. The bleeding had stopped, but he was very pale and tired.

"I could go to sleep right here," he said, as if reading her mind.

Mamma fought back tears. She was afraid that if he closed his eyes, he would never open them again. "You stay awake, Anatole. Think about that lovely soprano you're seeing, the one who used to give Christine such a hard time."

Anatole smiled at the thought of Mamma encouraging a romance with Carlotta. Then he looked to where he'd last seen Gaultier. "He's not coming back, you know."

"He said he would," she replied sadly. "I want to believe him. But it doesn't matter. How could I take care of you and keep my eyes on him, too?"

"You could have tied him up."

"I thought of that, but with what? I already used most of my petticoat for bandages." She smiled. "You want me to take off my dress, too?"

Anatole laughed feebly. "At least you've still got your sense of humor." Then he became serious once again. "Go, now. Warn the others. There's nothing more you can do for me. If you tried to take me with you, I'd only slow you down, probably start bleeding again." He held up one of the two handguns he now had. "It's the old rock and a hard place, but at least I've got these."

"But what if it rains?"

"I won't melt. Now go. When the danger's over, you can come back and get me."

"You take care," she said sadly, then left.

Anatole never felt as helpless as he did at that moment, watching Mamma take off at a trot towards the house.

-0-0-0-

_Inside the Valérius House_

Erik hurried them up to his room and over to the window. He opened it, noting with satisfaction that it faced away from the front of the house, and hopefully away from Fournier's view. A quick look outside ensured him that their foe wasn't down below, waiting for them. "These branches reach almost to the window," he said, pointing to the apple tree. "They're sturdy enough for us to climb down. All you need are some basic climbing skills."

There wasn't time to discuss whether each had those skills. The smoke was getting denser as the fire was spreading through the lower floor. This was their only realistic chance for escape.

"Reynard, I'll go first, then Christine. I'd like you to come down last. Stay up here and give us covering fire if Fournier discovers what we're doing."

"Not a problem," the detective responded with deadly seriousness. Setting himself up, he nodded for the other two to get started. "That fire's not going to wait on us. Get going."

Erik looked at Christine. "Hand that to me," he said, taking the old musket she had been carrying and slinging it over his shoulder. Quickly and quietly, he climbed out the window and grabbed hold of the largest limb he could and began his descent. Once down, he made sure the coast was clear, then motioned to Christine.

She had made it halfway down when she heard a tearing sound and felt something tug at her skirt. Turning, she saw the fabric was snagged on a branch. Uttering a curse softly under her breath, she tugged at the material. The skirt and petticoat ripped some more, but not enough to free her.

_"Hurry!"_ Erik whispered loudly.

"I'm trying," she muttered, giving the fabric another yank. Still it would not give. "There's only one thing left to do," she said to herself, and undid the garment's buttons. Slipping out of the skirt, she made the rest of the way down in only her blouse, the torn petticoat and her under garments.

"Over here," Erik said, barely noticing her state of undress as he directed her away from the burning building. Though the night was dark, the fire gave them more than enough illumination as it engulfed the back door and windows, and was now spreading to the roof. "Stay here," he said, placing her between the chicken coop and the tool shed. "You'll be out of any line of fire. I'm going back to signal Reynard that he can come down now."

-0-

Reynard saw Erik come back to the tree. He emptied the chambers of the revolver and called down in a hoarse whisper, "It's empty."

"And I've got extra ammunition in my pockets," Erik answered, and the other man tossed the revolver out the window, but like Christine's skirt, it too got caught on a branch.

"Damn!" Reynard swore when he saw what happened. Reaching out the window, he shook the limb violently and was at last rewarded for his efforts when he saw the gun drop down.

Quickly picking it up, Erik reloaded the revolver and positioned himself so that he could, if necessary, provide covering fire while Reynard scrambled down. A cracking sound was followed by a thud and a loud oath.

Reynard, it seemed, had decided on taking the quick way down – via a branch that had finally given way under the weight of three people having used it as an escape route. Rushing to the detective while still keeping low, Erik helped him to his feet. "Are you all right?" he asked, relieved to see that though he was cradling his left hand, Reynard did not appear to be seriously hurt.

Reynard shook his head as they made their way between the outbuildings and rejoined Christine. "I think I broke my wrist," he said, biting back another oath when he tried moving his arm. "Luckily, it's my left wrist," he said, holding it out so Christine could look at it. "It could be worse; I'm right handed."

"Let me help," Christine said. She unfastened Reynard's cravat and made a sling out of it as they sat and watched the fire grow. A streak of lightning brightened the sky, and during brief moments of illumination, they watched for Fournier. Was that he sneaking in through the front gate? They watched anxiously, expecting to see him stalk the perimeter of the building.

"I'm not going to just sit here and wait for him to come for us," said Erik determinedly. "I'm going to find out where the bastard's holed himself up."

"What did you have in mind," Reynard asked.

"Trick him into revealing his position."

Christine looked at the blazing structure, then back at Erik. "And how are you going to do that with us out here?"

Erik smiled grimly. "Did I ever tell you that I was also a ventriloquist?"

Christine stared at him. "And what other hidden talents do you have?"

"I'll tell you later," he said softly. "That's a promise, so that you know I'm coming back."

"Which gun do you want?" asked Reynard, holding out the service revolver and the antique pocket cannon.

"Which do you think?"

Reynard pretended to sigh. "I thought you'd say that." He double-checked the chambers of the revolver. "Do you have enough ammunition with you?"

Erik nodded, took the gun, and left.

-0-

With catlike stealth, Erik made his way over to the stone fence. Remaining low, staying to the deepest of the shadows, he crept along the perimeter of the property. His senses were heightened, alert to even the minutest sign that Fournier was nearby. He knew the man had to be using the fence for cover. That's what he would do. There was no way he would assume his enemy would do any less.

Erik stopped. What was that? A shape? No, only a shadow cast by a tree from the lightning flashes. There was a long, low roll of thunder that ended in a sharp clap, and then the rain came down. It was a steady, wind-whipped rain. Its wetness could cause havoc with the gun. Erik patted his pocket, feeling with a sense of comfort the length of rope coiled inside. On a night like this, it would likely come in very handy.

He continued inching his way around the fence. Still no sign of Fournier. Very well, then. Time to force the other's hand. Erik hoped his ploy would work. It had been a long time since he had practiced ventriloquism. The last time was last year when, as a joke, he had made La Carlotta croak like a frog. The diva had been indulging in one of her displays of temper, and Erik had thought it the least he could do for the rest of the company. Ah, to be dealing with Carlotta rather than hunting down a mad dog like Fournier.

Throwing his voice, Erik called out. "Fournier! We give up, but we can't make it out of the house. You need to help us! If you won't help me, at least help Christine!" Erik only hoped that his pleadings sounded sincere.

"Ha!" Fournier shouted back.

Erik smiled. It had worked. He followed the sound of Fournier's voice.

"Figure it out for yerself, whoreson. You think I'm stupid enough to walk into a burnin' bulding? You want out? Then get yer sorry ass outta there on yer own!"

-0-

Christine and Reynard heard the two men, heard Fournier reply with a nasty chuckle, "I hope you burn in hell!" They watched anxiously for any sign of movement, but it was difficult, if not impossible, for them to see what was happening. The lightning was almost continuous now, the thunder changing from distant low rumbles to loud overhead crashes. The storm was upon them, and the skies opened up. The deluge had begun. The hiss of steam filled the air as the rain fell upon the burning house.

-0-0-0-


	46. Death Throes

**Chapter 43  
Death Throes**

Thunder may have been rumbling, but Anna Valérius could hear nothing but the sound of her own heart pounding in her ears. Something was terribly wrong, and it was not just what had happened to Anatole. Before ever coming within view of the house, she saw the faint glow that was her first clue of an even greater disaster. When at last she made it past the curve in the road, instead of her house, all she saw were flames. Her heart sank.

_Dear God, what has happened? Did the lightning cause this, or is this Fournier's doing? That man is djävul, the devil,_ she thought to herself, calling down upon the villain the worst curse in Swedish that there was. If she were a betting woman, she would be willing to wager her last coin it was the latter. Her chest tightened. She hoped and prayed that Christine, Erik and Reynard had escaped the blaze. But if they had, were they now in the clutches of that vile man?

Oblivious to the storm raging around her, thinking only of those dearest to her, Anna Valérius rushed towards the house.

-0-0-0-

Jean-Claude Fournier was a man on a mission, and that was to destroy the misbegotten freak of nature who had escaped from cage, and enjoy the pleasures of his woman. He had listened to Erik call out for help like the pathetic piece of offal that he was. The man cried like a baby, pleading, begging, wanting to surrender, but whining that they could not make their way past the flames and out of the house.

Fournier cleared his throat and spit on the ground in contempt. He did not give a damn about the people in the house. They could fry for all he cared. Fry to a crisp. Turn into nothing more than charred remains that no one would even recognize as having once been a human being. Of course, _Monsieur le Freak_ could not really be considered human. An oddity? Maybe. Human? Definitely not. But the vicomte's lady? She was another matter altogether.

Fournier scratched his stubbled chin as he pondered the possibilities. Maybe he should reconsider, get them both out – the freak and the woman. He could tie the freak to one of the trees; make the bastard watch, helpless and impotent, while he, Fournier, banged the life out of the slut in front of him. Only when it was over, when the bitch had screamed so hard and so long that she could not scream anymore, would Fournier do the world a favor and put the ugly bastard out of his misery.

-0-0-0-

Erik had only one purpose at the moment, to find and stop Fournier before the nasty piece of work killed anyone else. He continued stalking Fournier. Now he was the hunter, utilizing all the survival skills he had learned in the past; he continued to make use of his ventriloquist's skills, hoping to lure the other out of hiding, or at least trick him into revealing his position.

He called out to Fournier once again, begging the other man to help him save Christine. He was narrowing in on the other man's hiding place, when out of the corner of his eye he saw Mamma coming round the corner, heading for the blazing inferno.

-0-0-0-

Anna Valérius rushed towards the flaming house. She was about to call out when she was grabbed by a strong arm from behind, wrapping itself around her waist. Another arm circled around her upper body, clamping a hand over her mouth. She froze in terror.

"Don't shoot, Mamma," a familiar voice whispered into her ear. She wanted to cry with relief. It was Erik. He led her off the road, into the shadow of the trees, taking his hand away from his mouth. "Quietly," he said.

"Dear God, you frightened me!" she exclaimed, trying hard to keep her voice down. She looked at Erik's face. This was not the way she was accustomed to seeing him. Gone was the shy, unsure man who had come to her house all those weeks ago. Grim determination was written on his face to the point where she almost didn't recognize him.

Erik put a finger to his mouth in a shushing gesture. Then he motioned for her to follow him and keep low. She gathered up the folds of her skirt and bent low, in spite of the creaking of her knees. She followed Erik closely as he led her away from the gate.

"Climb over this," he whispered, indicating the fence. She nodded in the affirmative, hiked up her skirts and scooted up and over the barrier. "You have to move faster than that," Erik scolded, his voice tense with worry that they were taking too long, that Fournier would spot them.

"I can't move any faster, Erik! When you get to be my age, you'll understand!"

"I'm sorry, Mamma. It's just that...it's just that I care about you," he replied tersely, still on the alert. "You simply must move faster. Your knees will be the least of your problems if _he_ catches you. Go over there," he said, pointing towards the outbuildings, "but stay low. There you should be safe from the blaze. Christine and Reynard are there as well. I don't have time for lengthy explanations; those two can fill you in. All I need is for you not to be seen. Understood?"

"What about you?"

Even as he spoke, his eyes never stopped scanning the terrain. "I have some unfinished business to take care of," he said grimly.

Mamma reached into her pocket. "Can you use this?" She held out the pistol she had used on Gaultier.

Erik briefly considered her offer, but declined. "You'd better keep it. I've got Reynard's service revolver. All they've got back there are the musket and that double-barrel percussion pistol." For a moment, his expression softened. "Go now, and take care of Christine. She is very precious to me. You all are."

Then she was alone. It was as if he had never been there with her in the first place. "You worry about Fournier," she said softly under her breath as she as watched Erik drift silently back into the shadows, "and I'll worry about my knees tomorrow." Then she slipped into the night, towards the place Erik had shown her.

-0-0-0-

"Oh, Mamma, I was so worried about you!" Christine hugged the old woman tightly, tears stinging her eyes.

Mamma looked at their pitiful-looking group – Christine's clothes in tatters, Reynard's arm in a sling, the antique musket at the ready, all the while the three of them sitting in the rain and the mud. "What happened?"

"Fournier," was Reynard's one-word answer.

"Erik is out there, hunting him down," Christine added, a slight tremor in her voice.

"Yes, I saw him. He directed me back here." She handed the pistol to Reynard. "Erik said you might need this."

Reynard shook his head. "You'd better hold on to it, Mamma." He held out his injured arm for emphasis. "You're probably in better shape to use it than I am just now."

"How did you hurt yourself?" the old woman asked.

Christine quickly filled Mamma in on all that had transpired.

Mamma looked at Reynard. "Does it hurt very much?"

"I think it's broken," replied Reynard with a wry smile, "but that's the least of our problems." He glanced around as if seeking someone else. "Where is Anatole?"

Mamma took a deep breath. "We…we ran into Fournier and one of his confederates." She briefly told what had happened, and how she had to leave Anatole behind. "I only hope that Gaultier was being truthful with me."

Christine choked back tears at the thought of Anatole being left alone on the roadside, his only hope a man of questionable repute.

"Anatole is a very capable man," Reynard said, trying to reassure the women. "And Mamma, I believe you made the right decision about Gaultier. When I spoke with him back in Paris, I had the very strongest of impressions that the man truly wanted to leave his criminal tendencies behind him. Fournier, however, is a very intimidating figure. I can easily imagine him coercing even a strong man like Gaultier into bending to his will."

Mamma stared forlornly at the burning house. "I'm sorry, Christine," she finally said. "This…none of this would have happened if I hadn't been so stubborn." She broke down at last; her shoulders slumped and shaking with sobs as she sat on the wet, muddy ground with her face in her hands.

Christine held her foster mother close, rocking her as if she were the mother, comforting a grief-stricken child. "It's all right, Mamma. We'll make it. We may be hurt, but we're still alive and fighting. Besides, Erik is out there."

The flames flared up as they encountered something combustible in the kitchen. The three of them watched, eagerly hoping no one was inside.

-0-0-0-

Erik ignored the cold rain that pelted him as he silently returned to where he had been, narrowing in on Fournier. He called out again, throwing his voice in the direction of the house. "Fournier! Help me! I can't get Christine out of the house. She's hurt…" There it was, a slight movement in the brush about 20 feet from him. The ploy had worked. Time to spring the trap.

-0-0-0-

Fournier laughed aloud as he heard the pitiful bleating of his foe. He went to get up, having decided to 'save' the two of them, then snatch the little songbird for his own pleasure.

"Looking for someone?"

Fournier froze at the sound of the voice behind him, a voice deep and ominous, as if from a sepulcher. He twisted his head around as he reached for his gun, ready to attack.

"Don't move, Fournier. Don't make me do something I've been aching to do for so damned long."

"What the fuck?" he cried out in shock. "B-but, you're…"

Erik stepped partially out of the shadows, close enough for Fournier to see his face, yet far enough to be out of Fournier's reach. From where he stood, all Fournier could see in the light from the fire was the damaged side of Erik's face, the harsh shadows cast by the blaze distorting his features into a grotesque mask of vengeance and hatred. If Fournier had been a religious man, he might have thought that this was the face of an avenging angel, an angel of death. He inched his hand slowly towards the gun that was resting atop the stone fence.

"I said, don't move," Erik said, the calm of his voice belying his threat.

Fournier only laughed, his upper lip curling into a snarl as he reached for the weapon, only to have a rope snake out from the depth of the shadows that surrounded Erik, yanking the pistol out of harm's way. Erik smiled, but there was no humor to it. He took another step out of the shadows, allowing Fournier to see Reynard's service revolver pointed directly at his heart.

"How'd you get here without me seein' you?"

Erik gave a demonstration. _"Fournier, help me!"_

"You really are a circus freak," Fournier said with a nasty cackle.

But Fournier's insults had no effect on Erik – not this time. He drew himself up to his full height, towering over his erstwhile tormentor. Gone was the injured, helpless, shackled person lying on a filthy floor at the asylum. That man had disappeared long ago, only Fournier did not realize this. Erik stared down at the other man as if he were little more than a cockroach, to be crushed underfoot so as not to annoy others again. "As a matter of fact, I did perform in sideshows years ago. Entertained weak-minded fools – like you."

"So, what're ya goin' to do with me?" he sneered. "You ain't got the balls to shoot me."

"Are you sure?" Erik kept his eyes on Fournier's hands. The gun may have been taken out of the picture but, in all likelihood, he had other weapons hidden on him. As far as Erik was concerned, Fournier deserved no mercy – he had killed two people back in Paris, had abducted and tortured Erik, threatened Christine, and torched the house. No, the man deserved no mercy. But did he want to return to what he had been in Persia – judge, jury and executioner? Erik did not want more blood on his hands. "Put your hands on top of your head, where I can see them," he commanded. "You are now my prisoner."

Fournier spat on the ground. "You want me yer prisoner? Then come an' get me," he challenged.

Erik prepared to do just that when he felt the hairs on his body stand on end. A strange, burning smell filled the air, and his skin tingled. _Damn it! _he cursed to himself. _Lightning's about to strike!_ Having learned to recognize the warning signs during his early years of living a nomadic life, Erik knew he had to hit the dirt, and quickly. He barely made it to the ground when a flash of blinding light, followed by a crash of thunder, ripped through the air as a nearby tree was struck, the concussion from the blast knocking Fournier off his feet. Half the tree came crashing to the ground, barely missing both as the strike had left them temporarily blinded, deafened and stunned.

Erik recovered first by the barest of seconds. As if detached from his body, he watched Fournier pull himself up off the ground, pulling a knife from his boot. Erik prepared for the attack, already shaking off the effects of the blast. A master of the Far Eastern art of baritsu, learned during his many travels, he used his opponent's weight against him, and easily tossed Fournier aside. Spying the revolver that had fallen out of his hand when the tree had come crashing down, Erik dove for it. Fournier saw the gun as well. A struggle ensued as both men grappled in a fight to the death.

-0-0-0-

Christine, Mamma and Reynard were huddled together behind the chicken coop when they heard a shot ring out.

Reynard jumped to his feet. "That's it. Broken wrist or no, I'm not going to just sit here when I could be helping Erik."

"I'm coming with you," Christine got to her feet as well.

"Me, too," added Mamma.

"Nonsense! If anything happens to the two of you, Erik will have my hide." Reynard made a quick survey of the landscape. "There's no use hiding any longer. Run for it, the both of you. Find help. Get someone – anyone. A neighbor. A stranger. I don't care. Just…get _someone_."

"Then take this with you," Mamma said, handing him her pistol. "And God bless you."

Reynard nodded grimly as he looked off in the direction the shot had come from. He had barely gone five paces when Christine shouted, "Look! Heading this way!" He turned and saw Erik, staggering, exhausted, and covered with gore.

Not caring who, if anyone, might still be lurking in the shadows, Christine ran to Erik. All she wanted to do was throw her arms around him and hold on to him as if her life depended on it. Then she saw how much blood there was – on his shirt, the front of his pants, on his hands, some spattered across his face. "Oh, my God! Erik! You're hurt!"

He smiled almost shyly. "It's all right, Christine," he said softly. "It's not mine." She reached out to him, but he tried to keep her at arm's length. No doubt, it was foolishness on his part, but she had been the one untainted part of his life up until this point. He did not want her soiled with Fournier's blood.

"You dear, sweet, silly man," she cried, ignoring his protestations as she hugged him fiercely.

Giving in, he returned her embrace, burying his face against the crook of her neck, struggling to calm the conflicting emotions that were churning inside. No matter how experienced he had been with death in the past, there was always a terrible aftermath when a life was taken, that internal struggle between elation and remorse. He felt an almost euphoric sensation, an exhilaration that they had survived, that Fournier had been stopped, but there was also the regret that it had been at the cost of a human life. It did not matter that it had been Fournier's life; a life was still a life. Killing was something he had wanted to leave behind him forever. That the fight had been on such a personal level only added to his inner conflict.

Christine did not have to be told any of this. She may not have been able to comprehend everything Erik was going through at the moment, but she knew enough to understand that he was drained – both physically and emotionally. She said nothing, instinctively knowing that words were not necessary, only touch. She held on to him, let him know on a physical level that she was there for him, always his anchor as he was hers. They stood perfectly still, allowing the cleansing rain to wash over them both.

At last, he could feel his self-control returning. He lifted his head and looked into her beautiful, loving eyes. He smiled, knowing he could drown in those eyes. "Thank you," was all he could think to say, his voice rough with emotion.

She blinked back tears as she reached out and pushed wet locks of hair away from his face. "You're welcome," she whispered back. She put one hand on a blood-soaked shirtsleeve. "You _are _hurt!" she exclaimed, seeing for the first time seeing the several cuts on his forearms.

Erik looked down and shrugged them off as nothing of real concern. "Fournier had a knife."

Christine could not be deterred, however. She rolled the sleeve back to get a better look, relieved when she saw for herself that they were relatively shallow. "It doesn't appear that any of them need stitches."

He hugged her again. "Don't worry about them. I'll be fine." He looked out and saw Reynard and Mamma rushing towards them. "It's over," he called out to them. "We won't have to worry about Fournier any more."

-0-0-0-

* * *

**Author's Note:** I could not resist yet another tribute to The Great Detective himself. Baritsu is probably the most famous fictional martial art.

"_When I reached the end I stood at bay. He drew no weapon, but he rushed at me and threw his long arms around me. He knew that his own game was up, and was only anxious to revenge himself upon me. We tottered together upon the brink of the fall. I have some knowledge, however, of_ baritsu_, or the Japanese system of wrestling, which has more than once been very useful to me. I slipped through his grip, and he with a horrible scream kicked madly for a few seconds and clawed the air with both his hands. But for all his efforts he could not get his balance, and over he went. With my face over the brink I saw him fall for a long way. Then he struck a rock, bounced off, and splashed into the water._"

--Sherlock Holmes in "The Adventure of the Empty House," by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle (1893).


	47. Now We're Even

**Chapter 44  
**"**Now We're Even"**

Anatole drifted in and out of sleep. Off in the distance were low rumbles of thunder. Part of him wanted to wake up, to discover why lying under a tree in the midst of a thunderstorm should feel so warm and cozy. Then there was the other part that did not care why he was comfortable, so long as he was. He shifted his head slightly, not finding it unusual to feel it resting on a down-filled pillow. When he went to take a deep breath, however, the sharp pain in the left side of his chest brought him wide-awake.

"Wh—who are you?" he asked, startled to find himself laying in a bed, in a strange house, and with a middle-aged man standing over him, checking his pulse.

"I am Dr. Visant Bret," said the other man, a kindly smile softening his otherwise severe features.

"Anatole Garron," the injured man responded groggily, completing their introductions. Anatole tried to push himself up on his elbows and immediately felt another sharp pang. He gave up the idea and let his head sink back onto the pillow as he panted slightly from the exertion. It was then his mind cleared and he remembered the gunshot wound. Forcing himself to lie still while he caught his breath, he realized Dr. Bret was talking again.

"Your pulse is much stronger and your color is much improved. You have a cracked rib, which, as you have just found out, can be extremely painful. I wouldn't recommend a lot of moving around just yet, and if you feel the need to cough or sneeze, you might want to hold a pillow close to your abdomen," the doctor suggested. "It will lessen the pain."

Now fully awake, Anatole noticed he was in a small bedroom. Could this be the farmhouse he remembered Mamma telling Gaultier about? He glanced about, taking in the burning logs crackling merrily in the fireplace at the far side of the room. On the dresser was a small oil lamp, its light adding to the warm glow of the room. A flash of lightning brought his attention to the window, its panes covered with raindrops. Looking down at himself, he realized that under the covers, all he was wearing was a large amount of bandaging wrapped around his chest…and his under drawers. He looked back up at the doctor.

"Where are we?"

Bret pulled up a chair and sat next to his patient. "You are the guest of M. Alan Kerjean. Alan would welcome you himself, but he is out at the moment." Dr. Bret went on to explain that a stranger had come banging on Kerjean's door just as the storm broke with a story of a villainous man named Fournier, who was stalking the Valérius house, and an injured man left by the road.

"It was good fortune I happened to have been visiting with Alan tonight. This man, Gaultier, helped us get the horse hooked up to the wagon, then directed us to where you had been left. I must say, when I first saw you under that tree, I feared we were already too late; your face was pale as a ghost's. I was greatly relieved when I found a pulse, but it was faint and I could not rouse you. Thank goodness you are a strong man."

"So, what is your prognosis?" Anatole asked.

"I think fortune smiled upon you this day," says the doctor. "A little further in one direction or the other, and the bullet might have punctured your lung. A few centimeters higher, and it might have struck your heart. As it is, it ricocheted off your rib, leaving a painful but non-fatal wound. It's the rib that is making breathing rather difficult for you right now, but the condition will improve over the next few weeks. Barring unexpected complications, you should make a complete recovery."

Anatole made a face. He knew he was fortunate; not only in being alive, but also in that the opera season was ended for the year. One thing was for certain, it would be a while before he did any singing.

The doctor pulled a small notebook and pencil from his jacket pocket and began jotting on its pages. "I am writing out a diet for the cook to prepare for you, one that will help in rebuilding your strength. For now, the most important thing is for you to rest for several days. You lost quite a bit of blood."

His most pressing worries allayed, Anatole turned to the subject concerning him most. "Have you any word about Mme Valérius and the others? Are they safe?"

"I don't have any details, but I can tell you the fire brigade has been called out. Gaultier told us he thought the other man was planning on setting fire to Mme Valérius's house. The two of them, Gaultier and Kerjean, hurried back to town to raise the alarm as soon as we got you inside."

Hearing such news was heartening, and Anatole relaxed visibly. Whatever treachery Fournier was planning, at least his friends would not be fighting him alone. He turned his head to see Dr. Bret looking at him, a quizzical expression on his face. "Is something wrong, Doctor?"

"It's nothing, only…I can't get over how familiar you look. Have we met before?"

Anatole shook his head. "No, I came to Perros, to visit friends who are staying with Mme Valérius."

"Ah, yes, her daughter, Christine, and her future son-in-law," said Bret.

Anatole blinked in surprise. "You know about Erik?"

"She never told me his name. Actually, I know very little about him. I'm often out and about, traveling these back roads as I make my rounds, visiting my housebound patients. On one of my trips, I passed the Valérius house and saw a man working in the yard. When I saw Mme Valérius at market a few days later, I asked her who he was. She didn't say much, only that the gentleman was her future son-in-law, and he was staying with her while he recuperated from an accident. Since I never heard further from her on the matter, I assumed all was well. She seemed to think what he really needed was a quiet place, away from the hustle and bustle of Paris." He paused, then asked, "Are you from Paris?"

"I live there," he told the affable doctor, "but now I spent most of my time in Paris. I sing at the Paris Opera."

"Ah!" exclaimed the doctor. "Now I know why I thought you looked familiar. You are the baritone. Forgive me, monsieur. With all this excitement, I did not make the connection. Oh, my sister will be so thrilled when I tell her that I've met you."

"You've been to Paris recently, to the opera?" Anatole inquired.

Dr. Bret smiled and nodded with enthusiasm. "Yes. I have a younger sister who lives in Paris with her husband. I often visit her. It is only a short distance by rail, as you know. Whenever I visit, we always try to go to the _Palais Garnier_. Such a beautiful building! Every time I step inside, it takes my breath away. The last time I visited, we went to the premiere of _Le Prince Masqué de Caucasus._ I make no claims to being an expert in musical matters, sir, but in my opinion, I thought the entire production splendid. The costumes! The sets! The dancers! But most especially, you and the lovely Carlotta. The two of you make such a handsome couple. Is she as delightful to work with as she appears on stage?"

Anatole was momentarily stumped as to how to reply to the question about La Carlotta. True, the diva had indulged in making life miserable for most of the company for a very long time, but of late, she had begun to soften – especially towards him. "She is a woman of many talents, and is very dedicated to her art," he replied with as much tact as he could muster.

"My apologies, M. Garron, for tiring you," Bret said as he rose from his chair. "You've had an exhausting experience, and here I am, bothering you with all my prattle about operas and divas when you are undoubtedly more concerned over the well-being of your friends." The doctor walked over towards the dresser and turned down the oil lamp, leaving the cheery blaze in the fireplace to illuminate the room. "If you need anything, I shall be in the room next to yours. Just call out. I'll hear you."

"Will you let me know as soon as you have any news of them?" Anatole asked.

"Of course, but I'm sure your friends are in good hands. The people of Perros take great pride in helping one another in times of need. Now I must be your doctor again, and prescribe sleep."

"Uhm…Dr. Bret? Might I ask one more favor of you?"

"Certainly."

"Would you keep my identity under wraps? I mean, it might look bad for the Opera. The more unscrupulous sorts might misunderstand what happened here tonight, might try to turn this into a scandal. I'm sure you understand."

The truth was Anatole did not want tonight's events bandied about in the newspapers, especially the Parisian tabloids. No matter what the outcome at Mamma's house – and he had confidence in Erik and Reynard's abilities to defeat Fournier – there was still the root of the problem, Raoul de Chagny, to consider. Anatole was confident Erik and Reynard would agree it was best at this point to allow as little information as possible to leak out to the public. There was little doubt de Chagny knew about Perros, knew this was where Erik had been hiding. Otherwise, why would his henchmen have shown up here? He looked back at Dr. Bret.

"I understand completely," was his reply. "The Parisian gossipmongers love to distort unfortunate situations such as this, sullying people's good names. As I recall, Mme Valérius's daughter sings too, does she not?"

Anatole nodded, having forgotten Mamma's neighbors would be aware of Christine's foray into the world of music.

"Yes, I thought so. Don't worry. I'll keep this all under my hat, and I'll see to it the others do, too. Now, get some sleep."

-0-0-0-

Above the din of the storm, a new sound was heard. Mamma, Erik, Christine and Reynard stared in disbelief at the sight they saw coming towards them from Perros. Bells clanged and hooves pounded as a fire engine, the pride and joy of Perros, pulled up in front of Mamma's house. In the distance, the bells of Perros's churches were ringing, continuing to sound the alarm. Leading the rescue mission was a distinguished-looking older man with silver-gray hair who Mamma recognized as her long-time neighbor and friend, Alan Kerjean…and Gérard Gaultier.

"Make way! Make way!"

A man jumped down off the vehicle and opened the gate, guiding the pumper inside and closer to the burning house. Following the vehicle, a veritable crowd was rushing towards them, many carrying buckets. Horse-drawn wagons pulled up, loaded down with other supplies. Erik was relieved as well as impressed to see so many people coming to help. This kind of response was something with which he had little experience. On the other hand, he had to laugh as he found himself comparing the throng to a horde of medieval peasants. All that was missing were the pitchforks and torches.

Occasionally, individual voices could be heard.

"Over here! There's a pump over here!"

"Form your lines. Get water on that fire!"

"Bring the engine over here. There's a pond behind this fence!"

"Is anyone hurt?"

"Over here! This man is dead."

The four of them watched in amazement as two lines quickly formed, buckets passing from hand to hand. Several men worked the manual pump, forcing water through the length of flexible leather hose. Others handled the hose, using it to pour even more water onto the blaze. The rain helped, too, keeping much of the exterior blaze contained and making the firefighters' job all the easier. However, portions of the interior were still burning brightly. Organized chaos engulfed the grounds, but it was soon replaced by order while the crowd of Perrosians grew with every minute.

Mamma caught sight of Gaultier, staring in disbelief. "I was so sure he would run off."

"Who, Mamma?" Christine stood on her toes, trying to see who her foster mother was referring to.

"Him." Mamma pointed at Gaultier.

Erik's eyes narrowed.

Mamma ran over to Gaultier. "You…you came back!"

Gaultier tried to smile graciously, but it wasn't in his makeup. He shrugged his shoulders. "I told you I would."

"And Anatole? Is he…is he alive?"

"He was when we left him back at the farmhouse. The doctor was taking care of him when we went to Perros and called out the fire brigade." He looked over his shoulder at the fire engine and bucket brigade. "Fournier didn't confide all his plans in me, but I knew he'd brought kerosene with him. Figured he was going to burn something."

Erik turned to Christine and Reynard. "Wait here," he said, focusing on Gaultier with a formidable single-mindedness.

Reynard watched to see where Erik was going, and saw with whom Mamma was talking. "This doesn't look good," he said to himself.

"Why? Who is that?" asked Christine.

"Gérard Gaultier, one of the men who abducted Erik."

"Oh dear!" she said, her eyes widening as Erik approached Gaultier.

Erik strode over towards Gaultier. He saw recognition in the other man's eyes; could tell from his expression that Gaultier was trying to decide which would be best – fight or flight. Erik placed himself between Mamma and Gaultier, ready to protect her if necessary. Drawing his arm back, he made a fist and smashed it into Gaultier's face, relishing the feel of cartilage crunching under its impact.

It was a stunned Gaultier who crumpled to the ground. He managed to get into a sitting position as he tried to clear the stars floating before his eyes.

"Erik!" Mamma cried out. "What are you doing? This man helped us!"

"Helped you?" Erik stood tall, looking first at Mamma, then down at a bloody-faced Gaultier. "What are you talking about?"

"Fournier would have killed Anatole and me where we stood, but this man intervened. He pretended to stay behind to finish us off, but in fact went to get help."

"It's all right, _grandmère_," Gaultier said, spitting blood as he spoke. He spoke the word _grandmère_ with respect. "After what I did to him," he looked up at Erik towering over him, "I deserved it." He blinked several times to clear the cobwebs. Then he checked his jaw, rubbing it gingerly. Putting a finger inside his mouth, he plucked out a tooth. "Damn! You sure can pack a punch. Feels like the fist of God," he said with awe. Tentatively, he offered Erik his hand. "We even now?"

Erik's response was to draw his fist back as if to strike again. He watched dispassionately as Gaultier flinched. Exhaling heavily, Erik lowered his fist and opened his hand. He held it out. "_Now_ we're even," he said, pulling Gaultier up off the ground.

Gaultier untied the bandana tied around his neck, wiping his face with it. He looked around the yard, still skittish. "Where's Fournier?" he asked.

"Over there." Erik pointed to a body being lifted into a cart.

"How'd it happen?"

"There was a fight. He lost."

"Good."

Erik stared at the other man. "Do you expect me to believe you've changed your ways? That you've reformed?"

"Look, I've made some bad choices in the past. Did some stupid things. Things I regret. I don't expect you to understand," was all Gaultier would say.

Memories of his own checkered past, especially those bitter years spent in Persia, came to Erik in a rush. "On the contrary, I probably understand much more than you'll ever realize." Gaultier looked askance at him, but Erik offered no further explanation.

Mamma looked sternly at Gaultier. She raised her right arm, pointing her forefinger upwards, wagging it for emphasis. "I want you to listen very closely, Monsieur Gaultier. Consider this a hint from God above that you should mend your ways and not bother any of us – or anyone else – ever again," she scolded. "Go out and find yourself honest work. Stay away from the likes of men like Fournier. Now, I shall wish you a good night, and hope our paths will never cross again." And with that, she headed over to the firefighters, trying to find out what they might be able to salvage from the burned-out wreck that was once her house.

Gaultier managed to look properly rebuked. "Yes, _grandmère_," he said quietly. "I promise." He watched admiringly as Anna Valérius walked away, strong and proud. "She's…she's quite a lady, monsieur."

"That she is," Erik agreed.

* * *

**Historical Note:** The first fire brigades in the modern sense were created in France in the early 18th century. The first Paris Fire Brigade, known as the _Compagnie des gardes-pompes_ (literally the "Company of Pump Guards"), was created in 1716. In the following years, other fire brigades were created in the large French cities. It is around this time that appeared the current French word _pompier_ ("firefighter") appeared, (literally "pumper"). Well trained and well equipped, the French fire brigades were in the process of professionalisation on the eve of the French Revolution.

Napoleon Bonaparte, drawing from the century-old experience of the _gardes-pompes_, is generally attributed as creating the first "professional" firefighters, known as Sapeurs-Pompiers ("Sappers-Firefighters"), from the French Army. Created under the Commandant of Engineers in 1810, the company was organized after a fire at the ballroom in the Austrian Embassy in Paris, which injured several dignitaries. I do not know if the village of Perros actually had a fire engine in the 1880s, but in my story, they do!


	48. Aftermath

**Chapter 45  
****Aftermath**

Mamma was looking at what was left of her house, talking to one of the firefighters, when she heard a voice call to her.

"Anna! Anna Valérius! Thank the Good Lord we got here in time!"

Mamma turned around to see her neighbor and long-time friend Alan Kerjean heading in her direction.

He rushed over to her, out of breath from all the evening's exertions, fighting the fire and looking for her. "I've been frantic with worry about you, Anna."

She threw her arms around him and hugged him. "Alan! I can't tell you how good it is to see you again. And look at all the help you brought us!"

Alan shook his head. "Don't thank me. I was sitting, nice and comfortable, in my house, playing chess with Dr. Bret. M. Gaultier's the one you should be thanking."

"Yes, well, we already took care of that." She did not wish to explain the confrontation that had just taken place between Erik and Gaultier.

He looked on with a hint of sadness at the wreckage that, until a few hours ago, had been a home filled with warmth and love. "Gaultier said there were others at the house with you. Did everyone get out of the house in time? Is anyone hurt?"

"Everyone's fine, Alan. A little bruised, but alive and kicking." She scanned the crowd, trying to find the rest of her expanded household. There was Gaultier, his face red and blotchy, yet doing his best to help with the bucket brigade, while Reynard must have walked off as he was nowhere to be seen. She looked over to Erik and Christine standing off to the side, away from the crowd. "Erik! Christine! Come here, please. I want you to meet someone." They joined her, both dripping wet from the rain and looking bedraggled, but smiling and holding hands.

"Christine, you remember M. Kerjean, don't you?"

Christine nodded. "Yes, of course." She kept her fingers entwined in Erik's.

Kerjean smiled back at her, then looked over at Erik. "And who is this?" he inquired.

"M. Kerjean, this is my fiancé, Erik duBois. Erik, this is Mamma's friend, Alan Kerjean."

Erik offered his hand. He knew his face was uncovered, that Kerjean might wonder at his appearance. But a fundamental change had taken place. Erik no longer felt the urge to hide his face. His recent experiences had shown him that there were many people who judged a person on more than appearances. He hoped Kerjean was one of those. He looked at Mamma's neighbor and realized the man was waiting for him to say something.

Erik smiled deprecatingly. "I…I'm sorry, I didn't hear you with all this commotion." He waved his hand to indicate the fire fighters. "What did you say?"

"Are you injured, monsieur?" Kerjean repeated patiently, concern showing on his face. "There is blood on your shirt and elsewhere. Do you need assistance?"

Erik looked down, and realized he must have looked quite awful, even with the rain having rinsed much of Fournier's blood off of him. "Thank you, I'm all right. This blood, it's nothing," he shrugged. "A few cuts, that's all."

"If you would like someone to look at those cuts, Dr. Bret is at my house with M. Garron." Kerjean looked over at the flames, watching as the flames were slowly being beaten into submission. He turned back to Mamma. "It doesn't look as though you'll be able to use your house for a while. I hope that you will accept my invitation to stay at my house." He added to Erik and Christine. "All of you. You are welcome to stay at my house for as long as necessary."

Erik glanced at Christine standing by his side. She smiled and squeezed his hand. He returned his gaze back to Kerjean. "Thank you. That is most generous of you."

"By the way, does anyone know where is Reynard?" asked Mamma. "He needs to get that wrist taken care of."

"Who is Reynard?" Kerjean asked.

"He is a friend, formerly of the Sûreté and now a private investigator," explained Erik.

"There he is." Christine pointed to a cart, where the detective was talking to a stocky man.

"Ah, that is the constable, Bastian Colin, he is talking to," Kerjean informed them. "I suspect the constable will be interviewing everyone about the cause of the fire…and that." He pointed to Fournier's body, now covered with a blanket, resting in the back of the cart to be taken away.

-0-0-0-

"How long have you two been here?" Anatole opened his eyes to see Erik and Christine sitting at his bedside. He had no idea how long they had been there. They both looked exhausted, and the clothes they were wearing were obviously borrowed. Erik's looked homespun, while Christine's dress was too big and kept slipping down her shoulder as she modestly clutched at the front, trying to keep it in place. Erik noticed, too, and removed his jacket, placing it around her shoulders.

"Is everyone all right?" Anatole asked anxiously.

"Everyone's fine," Erik grinned, "if a little bruised and battered. Mamma's house didn't fare so well, though. It looks as if we're going to be staying here for a while."

"We really shouldn't stay long, Erik," Christine recommended. "Anatole should be resting." She looked over at her friend, worry in her eyes. "If you'd like, we can tell you everything in the morning."

"Nonsense. What kind of cruelty is that, threatening to make me wait until morning. I would much prefer to hear about it now." Erik and Christine exchanged glances, but Anatole was adamant. "I assure you, I will not get another bit of sleep until I knew everything."

They relented, describing, as briefly as possible, all that had happened at Mamma's house.

Anatole frowned. "So, the house is…destroyed?"

"It certainly looked that way to me before we left," Christine said sadly. She looked back over at Anatole and saw him struggle to keep his eyes open. "This time, we really should leave."

"Before you go, I have one more favor to ask. When possible, would you wire Carlotta? Apologize for me, please, and tell her I won't make it back home in time to join her on the little trip we had planned on taking together."

Christine could not believe her ears. "You…and Carlotta? Oh, Anatole," she tsked sympathetically. "You do like a challenge!"

Erik laughed heartily and gave Anatole a conspiratorial look. "I have no doubt you will have her purring like a pussycat, now that she is being properly stroked."

"Erik! I can't believe you said that!" Christine scolded. "That's not a very nice thing to say."

"What?" he asked innocently.

She rolled her eyes. "I'll explain it to you later," she said under her breath, not wishing to sound lewd in front of Anatole.

Anatole, however, found the whole exchange extremely amusing and laughed out loud, ignoring the pain in his side. "You had better hurry and marry this man, Christine, and put him out of his misery."

"I have no idea what you're talking about, Anatole," she said, trying to sound prim.

"You know exactly what I mean." He looked over at Erik and winked. "Show the poor man some mercy, for heaven's sake. If you don't, perhaps I shall have to introduce him to Carlotta."

Christine narrowed her eyes. "You wouldn't dare!" she said, grabbing hold of Erik's arm and wagging her finger at Anatole. "This man is taken. And don't you forget it."

Erik just grinned.

-0-0-0-

Neither had a watch with which to tell the time, but judging from the skies, Erik figured it had to be only a few hours until dawn. It had been a long night, and this was the first time in what seemed like an eternity that he and Christine were alone, without the fear of Fournier hanging over them like a pall. He looked up and watched the clouds scudding rapidly to the east. After raging for hours, the storm had blown itself out. Now stars were twinkling from between the patches of clouds that had been left behind.

Back at Mamma's house, the fire brigade worked throughout the night, making sure there were no hot spots that could rekindle. In spite of all their efforts, it looked as if most of the house was a loss. That didn't matter, though, Erik thought to himself. He knew he had more than enough funds to rebuild Mamma's house. It would be bigger and better than before. As a matter of fact, this time he would see to it that she had a boiler, along with hot and cold running water on both floors.

He looked over at Christine, who was sitting next to him on the edge of the back porch, her eyes half-closed. She was fighting valiantly to stay awake. He reached over and put an arm around her.

"Erik?" Christine broke the silence of the night, her voice heavy with sleep.

"Shh," he replied, pulling her close, cradling her in his arms. "No more talking. Just…rest. You can barely keep your eyes open."

"I need to tell you something. It's…it's about those things Fournier said."

The topic of Fournier clearly made Erik uncomfortable. He shifted uneasily and took a deep breath. "There's nothing to say. He was trying to provoke me, that's all."

"I only wanted to say that…that even if any of it had been true, it wouldn't have changed anything. I mean, whatever might have happened back _there_," she couldn't get herself to say the word asylum or sanitarium, "it wouldn't…_couldn't_ change my feelings for you. I want you to know that."

"Thank you," he said softly, pressing a gentle kiss on her cheek. "That's…good to know."

"I also wanted you to know that _I_ know that Fournier was telling the truth…about at least one thing."

"And what might that be?" he asked stiffly. He looked at her face, surprised to see that she was grinning.

"I was referring to the 'considerable plumbing'."

"I…I beg you pardon?" Erik was taken aback at Christine's declaration. This wasn't exactly what he had expected her to say. She leaned even closer, letting her body mold to his, and rested her head against his shoulder.

"You asked me once who bathed you and dressed you when you were sick. Do you remember?" She reached out and placed her hand upon his chest, felt his muscles ease.

"I always suspected it was you."

She nodded, happy and content in his arms.

He chuckled. "Well then, I hope that the 'plumbing' met with your approval?"

She giggled softly, drawing little circles with her fingers upon the fabric of his shirt. "It was…sufficient."

Erik feigned hurt feelings. "Merely…sufficient? You cut me deeply, Mademoiselle."

"It's true that what I saw was every bit as good as what I've seen on the _premier danseur_ at the opera."

"Oh? You make a habit of inspecting men's…plumbing?"

Another giggle snuck out. "What I can see of it. I mean, with those close-fitting leotards, there's really very little left to the imagination."

"And mine is…only 'sufficient'?" Erik pressed her, not willing to let her off the hook just yet.

She gave in with an exaggerated sigh. "All right, it was more than…sufficient. It was…quite impressive. Is that what you wanted me to say?" The giggles turned to outright laughter. Then, she reached over and, placing her arms around his neck, pulled his face down and pressed his lips to hers. "Mmm…you taste good. Did I ever mention that before?"

"I…I taste good?" He grinned. "What do I taste like?"

"Like something sweet yet spicy," she purred, "like a forbidden fruit. And yes, I kept my eyes open."

Footsteps scuffled through the kitchen, the back door opening in their wake. Erik started to stand up as he turned to see their host approaching. "Please, don't get up on my account," the silver-haired gentleman said, motioning for the two of them to remain seated. "I didn't realize anyone was still awake at this hour."

Christine was glad the night was dark, so that the sweet old man could not see the blush that was surely coloring her cheeks. "It's been such a hectic night, I couldn't sleep. Neither could Erik. We…we were watching the moon."

The old man laughed softly. "Ah, yes, the moon," he said, noting to himself that the waning moon had set long ago. "I remember spending many an evening with my late wife…watching the moon." He turned to go back in the house. Looking over his shoulder, he added with a wink, "Sometimes there even _was_ one."

-0-0-0-

Erik woke to the aroma of bacon frying. He woke, momentarily confused as to where he was. _That's right. Kerjean's house._ He got out of bed, washed and dressed, and joined the others at the breakfast table.

"How's your wrist this morning?" Mamma was asking Reynard.

Reynard glanced down at his left wrist, neatly wrapped last night by Dr. Bret. "Turns out it isn't broken after all," he said with relief, "only badly sprained."

"That's good to hear," said Erik.

Reynard agreed.

"And how is your friend, M. Garron?" asked Kerjean.

"I stopped in to see him before coming down for breakfast," Christine said between sips of her coffee. "He was much better and in fact was feeling quite hungry. I took him a tray earlier. The kitchen staff were fighting over who would take him his food. It seems they're all excited at having the famous Anatole Garron under their roof. I finally had to step in and take the tray myself, else the women would have been tearing at each other," she said, shaking her head. "I'm sure it has absolutely nothing to do with the fact that he has already laid the charm on them."

Erik turned to Reynard and changed the subject. "What did you and the constable talk about last night?" he asked, having been wondering all morning if the gendarmes would be knocking at the door any time soon.

"The constable, M. Colin, and I had quite a pleasant conversation." The detective added with the slightest touch of smug self-satisfaction, "He was suitably impressed by my credentials as a retired inspector of the Paris Sûreté."

"Oh? Do tell," Christine said with a smirk. She looked across the table at Mamma, who was silently reminding Christine to mind her manners.

Reynard in turn frowned, not having a clue as to what Christine found so humorous, and said as much to her.

She flashed him her sweetest smile. "Forgive me, dear Reynard. It's not that I find _you _humorous, only that there was once a time when I thought you cold and somber. That was before I knew you, of course. I have since learned that you can be the veritable life of the party – when you wish to."

Reynard did not know how to reply to her comments, so he ignored her. "I filled the constable in on Fournier's background," he turned back to Erik, taking up where he had left off. "I explained the man's criminal history, and how Fournier had been hounding you for the past several months for no apparent reason. I let Colin know that in my opinion, Fournier was criminally insane, and that his death last night resulted when you were forced to defend yourself from his murderous attack."

Erik nodded, grateful that Reynard did not bring de Chagny's name into the picture. There would be time enough for that later.

"And will the constable need to speak to any of us?" inquired Mamma.

"He may, but only as a formality. I informed him that the three of us witnessed M. Fournier's attack upon Erik. It's really an open and shut case."

After breakfast, Reynard excused himself from the little group, telling them that he was making a quick trip to Paris but assured them he should be back within two days. He was going to call on some old friends from the police force and tie up a few loose ends.

Later, the three of them – Erik, Christine and Mamma – returned to what was left of the house. While Mamma inspected the ruins, Erik and Christine retrieved the strongbox they had hidden out back, and were pleased to find that its contents – the picture of "Gussie" Gustave Valérius, Erik's stash of bank notes and precious gems, and other important documents, including Mamma's copy of her fire insurance policy – were undamaged.

As they stood looking at the burned out wreck. Erik assured Mamma that whatever her insurance did not cover, he would. Whichever she preferred – rebuilding her old house or buying a new one – he would see to it that she got exactly what she wanted, down to the furnishings and the color of the wallpaper. Mamma tried to tell Erik that such generosity was not necessary, but he would not hear of it.

"These are material things," she said to him, referring to what she had lost. "What is most important is that we are safe."

"That is exactly my point," countered Erik. "This money, these jewels, they mean nothing to me. Their only purpose is to make you and Christine happy. After all you've done for me, this is the least I can do in return."

Mamma brushed a tear from her eye, and gathering Erik into her arms, kissed him on both cheeks. "Your mother would be proud of you," she said, choking back her tears.

Erik returned her hug. For several seconds he could say nothing, as he was busy fighting back tears of his own.

"I don't mean to interrupt," Christine said. Both Mamma and Erik blushed, feeling slightly embarrassed at being caught up in such an open display of emotion. "But there's something else I managed to save, Erik." She pointed towards the tool shed. "It's in here. Will you help?"

They walked over to the shed. She opened the door and pointed to the floor. "There's a loose board here. It makes a great hiding place. I know; it was my favorite place to hide my diary when I was young." She pulled up the board, revealing a recess below the floor, the perfect place for keeping one's cache of goods concealed. "Go ahead. See what it is."

Inside, Erik found a large sheaf of papers wrapped inside a protective leather case. He open the case almost reverently, his eyes widening as he saw what it was – his score for his symphony, _Don Juan Triumphant._ A lump formed in his throat. "I…I don't know what to say. You…saved this? Losing this would have been nothing compared to losing any of you. That you thought enough to do this…" He had to pause a moment, to collect his thoughts. "Thank you, Christine. Thank you…for everything." After a moment, he peered into the hiding place.

"Did I leave out a part?" Christine asked, her heart in her throat. "What are you looking for?"

"Your diary," he said drolly. "Are you sure you didn't accidentally leave it in there?"

"Trust me; there wasn't anything of interest in it. Just the silly scribblings of an adolescent girl."

"That's not true. Everything about you interests me."

A rosy blush colored her cheeks. "Why Erik, that's…that's so sweet," she stuttered, utterly captivated by his fascination with even the most mundane aspects of her life.

-0-0-0-

* * *

**Author's Notes:** I enjoy the bits of trivia I come across while researching this story. Here'a another one for you. A leotard is a skintight one-piece garment that covers the torso and body but leaves the legs free. It was made famous by the French acrobatic performer Jules Léotard (1839-1870), about whom the song "The daring young man on the Flying Trapeze" was written.

And for those of you who may be wondering, yes, by 1881 fire insurance had already been around for a very long time.


	49. A Masterstroke from the Trap Door Lover

I hope you enjoy reading this chapter as much as I enjoyed writing it. -HD

* * *

**Chapter 46  
****A Masterstroke from the Trap-Door Lover**

It was just a small item in the evening paper that caught Raoul de Chagny's eye. It was so small it was miniscule, barely warranting anyone's attention, and might never have caught de Chagny's if the words "fire" and "Perros" had not jumped out at him.

He read the single paragraph a second and then a third time, trying to see if he had missed some detail, disappointed that no names were mentioned. He was certain, however, that the small article referred to the Valérius house, that this was Fournier's doing. Raoul looked yet again at the newspaper.

According to the small story, a house on the outskirts of Perros had been set ablaze two days ago. The members of the household escaped with only minor injuries, while the culprit responsible for the blaze was dead, a victim of his own foul doings. The motive behind the attack was not known, but local authorities had learned that the perpetrator had a history of criminal madness.

Raoul crumpled the paper into a ball and threw it violently into the fireplace. His stomach lurched. He realized that his problems had gone from bad to worse.

-0-0-0-

As promised, once Reynard finished his business in Paris, he returned to Perros. When asked exactly what it was he did while in Paris, D'Aubert explained that he had seen to it that the whole incident had been smoothed over. "I still have influence within the official ranks." He went on to explain that he had arranged for the official records to show that the man known only as the Phantom of the Opera died from illness while in police custody. "A poor, homeless vagrant was buried in a pauper's grave for authenticity," he added. "With the Opera Ghost officially out of the picture, that should leave the two of you free to pursue your own lives without police interference."

"But, what about Raoul?" Christine asked.

Reynard frowned. "Unfortunately, because he is the Vicomte de Chagny, no matter what charges might be laid before him, he would probably get nothing more than a mild reprimand."

Erik nodded. "If that."

"Quite," Reynard agreed. "I am sorry, Erik, that I could not do more about de Chagny."

Erik smiled enigmatically. "Don't worry. I have something in mind."

"Erik!" Christine exclaimed with alarm. "You're not going…you won't…"

"Don't worry, Christine. I have no intention of harming the man. All I want to do is talk to him."

-0-0-0-

Once Anatole was well enough to travel, the four of them – Erik, Christine, Reynard and Anatole – took the train back to Paris, while Mamma remained behind with Alan Kerjean, overseeing the construction of her new house.

This was going to be a special trip for many reasons. Erik and Christine planned to make their last visits to the opera house. They were going to close up the house by the lake, taking with them whatever possessions – books, clothes, souvenirs and the like – they could. Erik had originally considered their staying at his house while in Paris, but decided against it when Christine pointed out that neither of them had any way of knowing if the managers or Raoul had discovered it. He next suggested that they take lodgings at one of the many fine hotels in Paris, but Reynard would not hear of it. And so it was decided that they would be the guests of Reynard d'Aubert for as long as they remained in the city.

While Reynard took care of having their luggage delivered to his house, Erik and Christine accompanied Anatole to his apartment. When they opened the door, they were surprised to find Carlotta waiting for him.

"Your wire," she explained, rushing to take Anatole's arm. "You told me so little in it, yet I knew that something had to have been wrong for you to send me such a message." When he gave her an abbreviated account of his injuries, she declared in no uncertain terms, "I will be your nurse."

"But…it's only a cracked rib," Anatole insisted to no avail.

Erik and Christine remained politely in the background, not wishing to get involved with whatever was going on between the two singers.

"Nonsense! I am moving in with you," the diva declared, "and shall take care of you to the best of my abilities." Carlotta was all but purring. She looped her arm through Anatole's and lead him to the sofa, taking the afghan from its back and tucking it around his legs. "There! That is much better, is it not?" she cooed as she nestled next to him.

"You give me no choice, Carlotta," Anatole said with an exaggerated sigh. "I shall avail myself of your tender mercies." Carlotta did not notice the smirk on his face.

Christine and Erik took this as their sign to leave. "Run while you can!" Erik whispered in Christine's ear as they let themselves out, Carlotta too occupied with fluffing pillows for either she or Anatole to notice that they had even been there in the first place. "And whatever you do, don't look her in the eye."

"Oh, stop that," Christine scolded, playfully punching his shoulder as they headed out the door.

-0-0-0-

Over the next few days, Christine accompanied Erik as he called at the several banks where he had accounts he was going to liquidate. Among the personal effects they had managed to salvage from the house had been Erik's mask. It was slightly singed, but with a little cleaning, it looked almost good as new. He wore the mask now more as a courtesy than any compulsion on his part to hide his face. People sometimes stopped and stared, he knew they always would. A few even put their hands over their mouths as the spoke in whispers behind his back but Erik did not care. He had Christine. That was all that mattered.

In going over his accounts, Christine was amazed at how wealthy Erik truly was. "What are you going to do with all this money?" she asked one afternoon.

"First, I thought we would see a jeweler about our wedding rings," he said, as he gathered her into his arms.

"You always know the right thing to say," she said, her eyes shining brightly.

-0-0-0-

Raoul returned to his own rooms late at night, after spending a quarrelsome evening with Meg. Details of the fire had trickled back to Paris. He tried to explain to her how serious his situation was. "If I don't get my hands on that humbug," he had told her, referring to Erik, "all will be lost." She in turn suggested that he get his priorities straight, telling him that if he had not been so obsessed with the Daaé girl, none of this would have happened in the first place.

He paced his bedroom floor, nursing yet another glass of wine, still feeling the need to insult Erik. "Fraud!" he shouted out. "Bastard! Schemer! Freak!" His outburst having done nothing to calm him, he at last took off his dressing gown, put out the lamp, and crawled into bed. In spite of the wine, he did not feel the least bit sleepy. He lay with his eyes wide open as he replayed recent events over and over in his mind, trying to come up with a solution to his problem. Fournier dead. At least one of Fournier's confederates dead. Worst of all, Erik was free to pursue Christine!

He tried concentrating on the calming tick of the clock, the little creaks and groans of the building as it settled in for the night. Then he heard another sound, a sound that didn't belong with the others. Someone, or some_thing_, was scratching at the French windows that opened onto the balcony. He raised himself on his elbow and squinted. There was a shape at the window. His breath caught in his lungs and a cold sweat poured from his temples as he saw two eyes, like blazing coals, at the foot of his bed. They stared at him fixedly, terribly, in the darkness of the night.

Raoul stifled a shiver of fear. He reached out, groping, hesitating, toward the table by his bedside. With a trembling hand, he found the matches and lit his candle. Then he looked back at the window. The eyes disappeared. He rose from his bed and hunted about the room, inspecting every corner. He even went so far as to look in the closet and check under his bed, like a child looking for the bogeyman. He tried shrugging off the feeling of dread that had come over him, telling himself his behavior was absurd. Returning to bed, he blew out the candle. But once the candle was out, the eyes reappeared.

He bolted upright and returned their stare. Mustering all the courage he possessed, he cried out, "Is that you, Erik?" A thought occurred to him. _He's on the balcony!_

Raoul jumped out of bed and ran to the chest of drawers, tearing through them until he found his revolver. Throwing open the balcony window, he stepped out and saw…nothing. He went back inside and closed the window. He walked over to his bed, sitting on the edge of the mattress while he shook from the cold night air.

_I'm starting to imagine things. No one's out there. _

Taking one last look at the window, he put the revolver on the table, keeping it within his reach. At last, he blew out the candle. He pulled the covers over himself and tried to force himself to sleep. "Damn you to hell!" he screamed when he looked at the foot of his bed and saw the eyes were there again. Or were they? He wondered.

_Are they really in my room, between the bed and the windowpane? Or are they behind the pane, on the balcony? But I already checked the room, and checked the balcony. _

Forcing his hand to stop shaking, he seized his revolver and, taking a deep breath, took aim. He aimed a little above the two eyes. Surely, if they were eyes, and if above those two eyes there was a forehead, and if he was not too clumsy…. He pulled the trigger.

The shot made a terrible commotion amid the silence of the slumbering house. Footsteps came hurrying along the corridor, and the door burst open. Servants appeared, carrying lights, followed by Philippe, brandishing his own revolver. "What is it?" his older brother roared, looking to see what mischief Raoul was up to. He saw his younger brother, sitting up with his arm outstretched, ready to fire again if need be.

Raoul stared into empty space. This time, the two eyes had disappeared. He swallowed hard, composing himself. "I think I have been dreaming," he replied fretfully. "I fired at two stars that kept me from sleeping."

Count Philippe frowned. "You're raving! Are you ill…" he paused, noticing the empty glass and the nearly empty wine bottle, "or drunk? Raoul, what the hell is going on?" He seized hold of the revolver, emptying the chambers and placing the gun on the bedside table. He pocketed the ammunition. "You're in no condition to be using this. You might end up shooting yourself." _Or me,_ he thought.

"No, no, I'm not raving and I'm not drunk," Raoul pouted angrily. His eyes widened as an idea came to him. "Besides, we shall soon see." He got up and slipped on his dressing gown and slippers. He took a light from the hands of one of the servants and, opening the window, stepped out onto the balcony. The count saw that one of the panes of glass had been broken by a bullet at a man's height. Raoul was leaning over the balcony with his candle. "Aha! Look here! Blood! And there, there is more blood! That's a good thing! A ghost who bleeds is less dangerous!"

Count Philippe stared at the place where Raoul was pointing, but saw nothing out of the ordinary. He looked back at his younger brother, and saw him grinning like a lunatic. The count shook him and slapped Raoul across the face. "Snap out of it, man, and tell me what you thought you saw." He dragged his brother back into his room and forced him to sit down in a chair. Philippe remained standing, contemplating what he should do. It was painfully clear that his brother was not in his right mind at the moment.

Raoul raked his fingers through his blond hair over and over. "My dear brother, I was not sleeping! It wasn't a dream," he babbled, his voice near to cracking. "You can see the blood for yourself. I thought I had been dreaming and firing at two stars. But they weren't stars. They were Erik's eyes…and…and there is his blood to prove it!" A fit of nervous laughter erupted. "All this would not have happened if I had drawn the curtains before going to bed."

"Or maybe better yet, pulled the covers over your head," Philippe muttered under his breath. He shook his head in dismay, worried that he might have to send for a doctor. The last thing he needed was the scandal of having his brother committed. "Have you suddenly gone mad? Look here," he said. Taking Raoul roughly by the arm, Philippe pulled his brother to his feet and led him back to the window. "Look. Look hard," he said, pointing at the balcony. "There's no blood. There's nothing. You're letting your imagination run away with you. In all likelihood, it was the neighbor's cat you fired at."

"The misfortune is," said Raoul, with a lopsided grin, "that it's quite possible. With Erik, you never know. Is it Erik? Is it the cat? Is it the ghost? No, with Erik, you can't tell!"

"Fool!" Philippe spat out with disgust. "Go to sleep, Raoul. Take a sleeping draught if you must, but go to sleep." He dismissed the servants. "The vicomte has had a nightmare, that is all. Everyone, go back to bed." _And knock before entering his room so you don't get your head blown off_, Philippe thought caustically to himself as he pulled the door shut behind him.

-0-0-0-

Raoul had not moved from his bed. How long had it been since Philippe left his room. Fifteen minutes? An hour? He had done as his brother suggested and took a sleeping draught but it had not helped. He nearly fell out of bed when he heard a voice.

"We need to have a talk, _Monsieur le Vicomte_."

Raoul grabbed for the revolver. It was gone. He turned to face the windows, and saw a man's form silhouetted by the moonlight.

"Looking for this?" the shadow said, holding out the revolver.

"H-how did you get in here?" Raoul reached for the bell pull.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you. We wouldn't want to upset the servants or your brother…again, would we?" The voice was silken yet menacing. Raoul quaked, dropping his hand to his side. Erik took two steps forward and laid the gun on the dresser – out of Raoul's reach. "As for how I got in here, let's just say that perhaps I _am_ a ghost…and your worst nightmare, all wrapped into one. You know, when I was your guest in the asylum, I often wondered how I would repay you," he said, pulling a length of rope from under his cloak and twirling it in his fingers with utter detachment.

Raoul felt himself starting to panic. "I…I don't know what you're talking about! I had nothing to do with that!"

"Come now, Monsieur. Did you really expect that a man like Fournier would not boast of his connection to you? Go to great lengths to tell me what your intentions were?"

Raoul sputtered, his fingers clenching and releasing. His palms were sweaty, and he rubbed them back and forth across the comforter. "He…I…he took it too far. It w-was meant to be a harmless joke. He was s-supposed to get you out of town for a week, so that Christine…w-wouldn't be preoccupied with you." The room felt twenty degrees colder.

"You mean," Erik continued, his voice like ice, "I was to be taken out of the picture so that you could be alone with Christine."

Raoul gulped, his eyes fixed on the length of rope. Images of himself hanging from the chandelier in the ceiling above flashed through his mind. In his fear, he began to stutter. "Wh-what d-d-do you intend t-to do to m-me?"

"I understand the _Requin_ is sailing next week. Be on board her."

The vicomte balked. "The _Requin _will be a sea at least a year!"

Erik smiled wickedly. "More likely two or three. Besides, you love the sea, and I understand the captain is looking for a new cabin boy."

"I've…I've reconsidered," Raoul said with false bravado. "My seafaring days are over. I no longer wish to leave Paris."

Erik could not believe how childish the Vicomte de Chagny was. It almost was beneath his dignity to menace such a puling brat as he. Erik chuckled. Almost, but not quite. "And why is that? Have you grown overly fond of Mlle Giry's questionable charms? Trust me. She thinks even less of you than I." Erik took another step closer, his voice like an iron fist covered in velvet – smooth, yet hard.

"Do you really want to face the alternative?" Erik continued. "I am trying to treat you like a gentleman, which is more than you have ever done for me. I never caused you any harm. On the contrary, we had never even met prior to your return to Paris, yet for the past six months, you have hounded me and persecuted me; you have caused great pain to good and kindly people, causing them serious injury and loss of property. And why is this? Because a young lady you met when you were a child declined your offer of a romantic liaison." He paused for dramatic effect. "You try my patience, Monsieur. Make your choice: Sail on the _Requin_, or face me."

-0-0-0-

Christine remained in bed, wide-awake though the mantle clock was striking two. She had pretended to be asleep when earlier she had heard footsteps padding down the hallway. Getting out of bed, she had opened the door a crack and was greeted by the sight of Erik leaving his room. He dressed in black, an opera cloak swirling around his ankles as he headed towards the stairs and out of the house. "Erik!" she called to him in a loud whisper. She'd had no wish to wake Reynard.

He had turned and stared at the vision of her standing in the doorway, her diaphanous nightgown not leaving much to his imagination. "My dear," he had answered softly, his voice warm and tender, "if you're going to run around in your nightgown, either do not stand with the moonlight behind you…or wear a robe. Else, who knows whose attention you might catch?" A devilish smirk broke across his face.

She had folded her arms across her chest and stepped out of the light. "Don't go getting any ideas. I'm not trying to lure you into my room. At least, not just now. I want to know where you are going."

"Don't worry, Christine; I have some unfinished business to attend. I'll be back soon. Go back to bed."

"Business? At this hour?"

"I will be back in a couple of hours. I promise." And with a flourish of his cloak and a wink of his eye, he had left.

That had been just after midnight. She had not slept a wink since – as if he really believed she would. She was sure his midnight jaunt had something to do with Raoul. Just then, the front door opened and closed quietly. Footsteps softly came up the steps. She got out of bed, this time grabbing her robe.

"Where have you been!" she demanded as Erik headed towards his room.

He held up his forefinger and put it to his lips. "Shh! You'll wake Reynard." Erik looked at her admiringly, a roguish grin on his face. "I see you took my advice about the robe."

Frustrated with his games, she took him by the arm and led him to her room. "Now," she said out loud, having locked the door behind them. "Now, you will tell me what you have been up to. I suspect this has something to do with the Vicomte de Chagny."

Erik's eyes opened wide with mock innocence. "Me? Call on de Chagny? At this hour?"

"What happened?"

He shrugged his shoulders. "We talked. He agreed that a nice, long sea voyage would be just the thing for his poor, shattered nerves."

"You're not going to tell me, are you?"

"Only if you insist," he said, encircling her with his cape. "But later. Much later."

"Erik! You didn't hurt him, did you?"

"I did not lay a finger on him." Erik said, crossing his heart. "It wasn't necessary."

"You mean…he saw the light?" she asked, hopefully.

"You might say that," he chuckled, remembering the look on Raoul's face when he mentioned that the Captain was looking for a new cabin boy. He kissed her and let his fingers trail along the side of her neck.

She moaned softly. "Mmm…what did you say?" she murmured, her body molding to his.

"Don't remember," Erik muttered, continuing his exploration of her body.

"Couldn't have been important," Christine murmured with a languorous sigh.

"Mmmm," Erik mumbled. "My thoughts precisely," he said, kissing her deeply. "You taste good," he sighed.

A little giggle slipped out as she remembered saying the same thing to Erik only a few days ago. "What do I taste like?"

"I'm not sure. I need another sample," he said, and kissed her again.

-0-0-0-


	50. Walking Away

**Chapter 47  
****Walking Away**

_The Reynard House  
__Two days later_

Over the next several days, Erik, always with a radiant Christine at his side, finished his business at the various banking institutions. Now, with all his accounts and investments liquidated, it was time to take that final step of walking away from the past by closing up the house by the lake. There had been a time in his life when even the thought of leaving his home under the opera house would have been. Now, it was something to which he was in fact looking forward. Closing the house would mark the closing of that chapter in his life that had been filled with darkness and loneliness. A new chapter had been started the day he first met Christine, one filled with endless possibilities.

It was morning. The three of them – Erik, Christine and Reynard – were sitting at the breakfast table, indulging in the hearty repast Cook had prepared. Reynard was reading his morning newspaper, when he looked up at the couple. "Here's an interesting item," he said, pointing to a few lines on the society page.

"Oh? And what might that be?" Christine asked, slathering orange marmalade on a freshly baked croissant.

"It says here that the Vicomte de Chagny will be leaving the country for an undetermined length of time. He is to be part of the crew of the _Requin, _which will set out at the end of this week on a rescue mission to search for any survivors of the _d'Artois_."

Christine looked across the table at Erik and smirked. "I seem to recall him telling me about the _Requin _the day we had lunch together last November, I believe it was." Erik pretended to scowl. "It was our first – and _only_ – luncheon date, I might add."

"Were you aware of any of this, Erik?" Reynard asked, who had caught the looks the two were giving each other.

Erik raised his eyebrows and shrugged his shoulders. "Who, me?"

"But, of course, you knew nothing of this," Reynard said with a quirky grin. "My apologies."

They resumed eating, when Erik asked, "Is it possible for you to arrange for a wagon of some sort we can rent for the night? Christine and I are going to close up my house, and we need a vehicle to carry back a few belongings."

"I'm sure I can take care of that for you, but, if you'd like, I can help."

Erik smiled at Christine. "Thank you, but no. This is something the two of us need to do alone."

-0-0-0-

Erik lit the gas jets, bringing the empty house back to life, if only for a few more hours.

"I can't believe we'll never see this place again," Christine said wistfully as she gazed around the room. It was shortly after midnight. They had purposely waited until late at night to avoid encountering anyone in or around the building, using the secret entrance on the Rue Scribe side.

Erik scanned the room, lingering thoughtfully on a few treasured possessions. He remembered with fondness the first time he brought Christine here, and their subsequent lessons together. Over here, in the parlor, was her favorite chair. It was in this house where they spent their first Christmas together, where Christine said "Yes" to his proposal of marriage.

Christine saw the look on his face, and worried that he was having second thoughts about leaving this all behind. "What is it, Erik? You seem to be…I don't know, perplexed I guess."

His broke into a smile, then he laughed. "Not perplexed; only remembering."

She stood next to him, looped her arm through his and leaned her head against his shoulder. "This place does have a lot of good memories, doesn't it?"

"And some not so good," Erik added thoughtfully. He saw her frown, and explained, "I spent most of my time here hiding from the world. It wasn't until I met you that I realized how much I was missing. These things don't matter, Christine. Like Mamma's house, they can be replaced. You are all that matters to me; you, Mamma, our friends."

"Well, then," she said playfully, "let's quit wasting time and get going! We don't have all day…er, all night. The sooner we get this done and are back in Perros, the sooner we can be married."

"Is there anything you'd like to keep? That chair that you liked to sit in beside the fire? Perhaps the china?"

Christine chuckled. "Don't be silly. We can't carry it with us."

He raised his eyebrows at her naivety. "You'd be surprised what you can do with a little grease," he said, fingering some francs in his pocket. "With my resources, it would be easy to bribe all the necessary people – stagehands, the night watchmen, even the rat catcher."

Christine looked around carefully. "Yes, there's something I would like to keep – those brass figures on the mantle," she said suddenly.

"The grasshopper and the scorpion?" He was slightly taken aback. He hadn't expected this response.

She smiled her most charming smile. "Call me sentimental, but I think of them fondly."

"Then you shall have them."

"I think they will look lovely on our own mantle, don't you?"

"Whatever you wish, my love. Name it and it shall be yours." He flicked open his pocket knife and began to unscrew the bolts that held the figurines in place.

"Careful. Don't knick the edges."

"I'm always careful," he mumbled, miffed that she would suggest he would be otherwise.

"I wouldn't want you to cut your hand," she said cautiously. "Oops. Too late," she muttered as she saw the blood begin to flow.

"It's just a scratch," he said as he put his finger in his mouth. "Damned knife slipped," he added, chagrined.

"Oh dear! Is it bad?"

"Nothing that won't heal," he said.

"Heal?" She laughed. "I was referring to the figurine, not your hand, you silly man. I know you'll be fine." Christine smiled smugly. "I have faith in you."

He snorted. "I'm glad someone does."

She walked over to the bedroom. "What about the Louis Philippe furniture?"

He came over and looked over her shoulder. "It's massive. I'm not sure even the rat catcher could carry it."

"But it's fine furniture! Besides, how did you get it down here?"

"Long story – the opera house wasn't completed at the time. Plus, I had a lot of construction workers at my disposal."

"Are you just going to abandon it? It will get all moldy and go to waste down here, with no one to care for it."

"It's part of the past. The fact is I'm looking forward to making a new home. With you."

"And it's going to be airy and cheerful. And sunny!"

Erik looked around dourly and mumbled. "Everything my lake house was not."

"But, back to the furniture. You suggested the possibility of greasing some palms earlier, and Mamma could certainly use some furniture. This would be perfect! It's functional, yet stylish." She nudged him slightly. "I've been with you these past days, going over those accounts with you, so I know it simply a matter of how much 'grease' you would be willing to spread around. If he plays his cards right, the rat catcher could end up a very well to do man. And then there would always be something to remind me of your home. It is, after all, where we spent almost two years together, getting to know each other...falling in love. How could I not want to save as much of it as possible?"

She realized that beneath the humor, he appeared to have some regrets about leaving his home. "Erik. I wish you'd tell me what's really on your mind."

"It's just that...I had imagined...I had always thought...you know..."

She stood watching him a moment. _I may be inexperienced, but I'm not naïve_, she thought to herself. _How can I put this delicately?_ Finally, she said, "Do you want to spend our first night together here, in your home? Perhaps in your own bed? Is that why you don't want to move the furniture out just yet?"

Erik looked horrified. That was not what he had meant at all. "Good God, no! I was wondering if, as long as we're giving the furniture to Mamma, do you think she would like these Persian rugs, too?"

The next morning, Erik and Christine prepared for their return to Perros. Other than the rest of Erik's clothes and accessories, the bulk of the items they had brought with them from the house were going to be sent on ahead of them via the railroad. This included the best of Erik's collection of books and manuscripts, his musical instruments, and an assortment of curios and souvenirs, as well as the furniture, which would be moved out later over the next two nights.

Before leaving Paris, they called upon Anatole. Sure enough, Carlotta was there with him, making a very pretty nurse. Even Christine was amazed at the change in the woman. _It's as I always suspected; she simply needed someone to care for and who would care for her._ Christine assured the two of them that she and Erik wanted them both at the wedding, and asked Anatole if he would stand in place of her father. "You've always been like a brother to me," she said to him.

Lastly, it was time to say _au revoir_ to Reynard. Pulling him aside, Erik had a request for the detective. "I was wondering if you would stand up for me at the wedding."

Reynard nearly burst with pride at being asked. "I would be honored," he replied, assuring the couple that he was looking forward to seeing them soon in Perros.

-0-0-0-

_Palais Garnier_

The dancers' lounge was deserted. Now that the season was over, hardly anyone hung around there. A few dancers came by to keep in shape, to practice the newest steps, but the usual panoply of sound and color was gone. One such dedicated dancer was Justine Sorelli, who was resting after an afternoon of vigorous exercises and practice. She was sitting in her dressing gown when she heard someone else enter the room. It was Meg Giry.

"Is something wrong, Meg?" Justine asked, taking a closer look at the younger woman and saw that her eyes were red and puffy, as if she had been crying. It was obvious that the young woman was upset about something. The two women had had their differences over the past few months, but in her heart, Justine actually found herself feeling sorry for the Giry girl. She knew first hand how much a dancer's success depended upon the whims of the audience, and of a patron. She looked back at her own situation, knowing that she had once been like Meg, willing to do anything to get ahead, had even gone so far as to give up a chance at true happiness for the sake of material gain. Now, she was getting older and there were many times, especially of late, where she questioned the choices she had made. Oh, she could still dance, could still hold her own against the young up-and-comers, but for how long? Her body was aging. Even if she did not look it, her body felt it.

Anger flashed in Meg's eyes, not at Sorelli, but at who or whatever it was that upset her. "Nothing serious," she spat, "only the fact that Raoul has sailed off on the _Requin _and left me without so much as a by your leave."

"What? He just left? Without even saying good-bye? Why, that's…."

"Callous? Unfeeling? Cruel?" Meg offered. "What did I expect from a cold-hearted scoundrel such as he?"

Sorelli motioned for Meg to pull up a chair and sit with her. "What will you do now?"

Meg was surprised at La Sorelli, that the woman sounded genuinely concerned! "I figured you'd be cheering," she said. "That you'd be happy to see me brought down a peg or two."

"Nonsense. You and I have a lot more in common than you ever realized."

Meg found herself smiling at Sorelli. "Thank you for your concern, but I'll be fine. You'll see. I'm like a cat, always landing on my feet. Besides, I made sure all the deeds and accounts the cad promised me were put in my name weeks ago. I had a hunch he'd pull some kind of stunt like this."

Justine could not hold back her laughter. "Good for you."

The two women remained sitting together, chatting about inconsequential matters, when Sorelli sprang her surprise. "I'm glad you stopped by, Meg. I was going to look you up. I wanted you to be the first to know that I'm retiring as of today. If you play your cards right, you could end up as the prima ballerina."

Meg just sat and stared for innumerable seconds, then finally asked, "Does Comte Philippe know?"

Sorelli shook her head. "No, I haven't told him. As a matter of fact, he doesn't know it yet, but I am calling off our…relationship."

"Why on earth would you do that?" Meg asked incredulously. "Think of what you'll be giving up!"

"It's…personal." As she spoke, Justine Sorelli slipped her hand in her pocket, and fingered the note she'd been carrying with her everyday since it had arrived, the one from Christine Daaé. The note had helped open her eyes, helped her see how empty and lonely her life truly was.

It was something that had been weighing upon her for a long time, that had first started when Raoul began escorting Meg around town. Justine began seeing her relationship with Philippe in a different light, things she had never paid much attention to before. They jumped out at her with crystal clarity, especially Philippe's crassness and vulgarity. When he spoke about Meg Giry and his brother and how his brother's attentions were more than a woman of Meg's station deserved, she wondered, _If he could say such things about his brother and his mistress, what does Philippe really feel about me?_

For the first time, Justine saw the hardness in his gaze, something to which she had become inured. More than once, she found herself wondering what it might be like to once again see warmth in a man's eyes. She pulled the note out of her pocket and read it again.

It was a letter she had recently received from Christine Daaé. It was mostly filled with "girl talk." Christine had written that she was now living in Perros, and that she was to be married soon. She wrote lovingly of her fiancé, and how it was such a relief to be away from the opera and all the in fighting. But what stood out the most in the letter was the name of a friend who was visiting – Reynard d'Aubert.

A tear came to Justine's eye. Was it possible that Christine knew that she and Reynard had once been lovers, that they had once talked of marriage? When she read the letter's contents again, it sounded as though Reynard were not married. Could it be possible for him to think kindly towards her after all this time?

"What's that you're reading?" Meg asked off-handedly.

Sorelli smiled wistfully. "Just a letter from a friend."

"Oh."

Sorelli rose from her chair to head towards her dressing room to change into her street clothes. "I think it is time I spoke to Philippe." She walked over and gave Meg a quick hug. "Good day…and _bon chance_."

Meg stood and watched her former rival leave the room. "Good luck," she said softly. Thinking she was now alone in the lounge, Meg was surprised to see a very handsome young man standing in the doorway. He was looking fondly in her direction, his dark eyes and the dark hair peeking out from his hat adding a bit of dash to his appearance. She nodded politely in his direction. "May I help you, Monsieur?"

The young man took off his hat and politely bowed his head to her. When he walked in Meg's direction, his motions were like those of someone who was shy and nervous. "Forgive me for intruding, Mademoiselle, but I have long desired the chance to meet you. I hope you will overlook my lack of manners. I am the Baron de Castelot-Barbezac. I…I have admired you from afar this entire season." Then he smiled, and Meg felt her heart start to melt. It was the most beautiful smile she had ever seen.

Meg did not know what to say as the poor man looked exceedingly nervous, and so she settled for, "_Bon jour, M. le Barrone,_" offering him her hand.

He accepted the proffered hand, his lips barely brushing the back of her hand. When he looked back up at her, he said haltingly, "I was wondering…that is…Is it possible…Would you accept an invitation to lunch with me?"

She grinned. How could she resist such a genteel invitation? "I would be most happy to, _M. le Barrone_. Did you have a particular day in mind?"

"Why…I was…I meant, today…now. If I am not being too bold?" He held his breath, waiting for her answer.

"I would be most happy to have lunch with you, Baron. Will you wait while I change into something more appropriate?"

He let out his breath, a dreamy look spreading across his face. "But of course!"

-0-0-0-

_Perros_

Back in Perros, the rebuilding of Mamma's house was proceeding rapidly. Thanks in part to Erik's largesse, they were able to hire enough workers to get the house up in record time. In accordance with Mamma's wishes, it was being rebuilt on the same site as the original, and in the style of the region, out of lovely native pink granite. Mamma had insisted that she did not need a large house, but decided that there should be at least two guest rooms in addition to the master bedroom.

Everyone agreed that the apple tree that had saved their lives had to stay. It sustained some damage from the fire, and the limb that had broken, but with trimming and care, there was little doubt that it would live to bear fruit again.

The days passed quickly. The house was all but finished, and wedding preparations were underway.

Now that they were back in Perros, Erik helped with the final touches on the new house, while Christine talked to Mamma about a wedding dress. They had originally planned on refitting Mamma's dress but it was destroyed in the fire. Now, the wedding was almost at hand and there was no dress.

"Not to worry," Mamma reassured Christine. "I know a lady in town who is not only an excellent seamstress but who also knows how to get a dress done quickly in an emergency."

"It's beautiful!" Christine said a few days later when Mme Lebeque showed her what she had created. Christine eagerly tried on the dress so that the final alterations could be made.

The dress she had chosen was made of cream silk brocade with a floral design woven into the fabric, net sleeves and collar, trimmed with pearls, beads and diamante. It was of the newer, plainer style and was accentuated by the rich, stiff fabric and lightweight trimmings. When Christine put it on, she was extremely pleased to see how flattering it was to her lithe form.

Mamma nodded in agreement. _"Ja_, this is so much prettier than those highly exaggerated leg-o-mutton sleeves."

"And much more comfortable than some of those cumbersome skirts that were in fashion a few years ago," Mme Lebeque chimed in. "Would you not agree, Mademoiselle?"

"Oh, and we mustn't forget this." Mamma handed a neatly wrapped package bound with pink grosgrain ribbon, about the size of a small hatbox, to Christine.

"What's this?" she asked.

Mamma gave her a grin. "Open it and find out."

With trembling hands, Christine untied the ribbon, peeled back the wrapping paper and opened the box. "Oh," she exclaimed as she pulled the tissue paper aside. "It's…it's beautiful!" From inside the box, she lifted out a delicate tiara embellished with artificial orange blossoms.

"It's for your veil," Mamma said. "It was mine. You have no idea how excited I was when I found that, though my wedding dress had been ruined by the fire, this miraculously escaped harm. It was if it was meant for you to wear it."

Tears welled in Christine's eyes. "Oh, Mamma," she cried. She wanted to say more, to tell Mamma how much she loved her, but the words did not want to come out. She very carefully laid the tiara aside, and reaching over to her foster mother, hugged her tightly. "Thank you," she finally managed to whisper. "Thank you very much."

Mme Lebeque stepped out of the room for a moment, and returned with a length of the sheerest white fabric. "For your veil, Mademoiselle. Why don't we see how the whole ensemble looks together?"

Mamma and the seamstress helped Christine with the veil and the orange blossom crown. Then she stood in front of the mirror, imagining herself standing before the altar, Erik at her side. "It's perfect."

-0-0-0-


	51. A Trip to the Church

Author's Note: I was originally going to have this plus the wedding plus the wedding night all in one chapter, but it was getting too long. So, as usual, I've split things up. Have fun!

HD

* * *

**Chapter 48  
****A Trip to the Church**

_Two Days before the Wedding _

The wedding was in two days. Reynard, at Erik's request, had come to Perros a few days earlier, and Anna Valérius saw to it that one of the guest rooms in the new house was available for him. Anatole and Carlotta had likewise been invited. In fact, they had arrived before Reynard but chose instead to stay at the Inn of the Setting Sun, and had only rarely been seen outside their rooms.

Erik was giving Reynard a tour of the house, and the detective was amazed at how much was accomplished in such a short period of time. "I can't believe the house has been rebuilt so quickly. What has it been, less than one month?"

Erik nodded proudly. "I did everything humanly possible to see that it was completed on time. Christine and I had settled on the date for our wedding – two weeks after her twentieth birthday. All of us worked very hard to meet our self-imposed deadline, and the workers we'd hired seemed every bit as eager as the rest of us."

Reynard noticed the room full of furniture. "And all this? I wasn't aware so much had survived."

"We were pleasantly surprised at how many pieces from the interior rooms we were able salvage. With equal parts Mamma's special furniture polish and elbow grease, they look as good as new." Erik tapped the corner table. "The other pieces arrived last week from Paris, including the piano. It's the furniture from my old house."

Reynard chuckled. "So, it's not so much that you're moving out as moving to another location. Does this mean that you and Christine are going to settle in Perros?"

"For a while. Mamma has generously offered to let us to live here until we decide what we want to do. I used to be an architect, and I'm thinking I would like to get back into that field. Christine wants to sing again, and I would like nothing more than to see that she has the opportunity to do so. But we both agree, though, that it won't be in Paris. At least, not for now."

Reynard was suitable impressed. "You're fortunate in that you will have a mother-in-law with whom you get along. Not all men are so privileged. But where will you eventually go? Milan? Vienna? London?"

"We were thinking of America, of going to New York City. It's young and vital with many opportunities, and would provide us with a completely fresh start."

-0-0-0-

_The Wedding Day - Morning_

This was the morning of her wedding. Giddy with excitement, Christine jumped out of bed, having barely slept the night before. She rushed over to the window and threw it open, inhaling the fragrant air. She still could not believe she had been able to persuade Erik that they should have a Breton-style wedding with its many out-of-doors festivities. All night long, she had fretted that the weather would not cooperate in spite of Erik's assurances that all signs pointed to good weather.

Her fears turned out to have been for naught, as she was greeted by a picture-perfect day – the kind every bride dreamed of. She hugged herself as she looked up at the deep azure sky with its puffy bits of cotton floating lazily on the light southern breeze. Below, the newly landscaped yard was in full bloom, many plants having escaped damage from the fire including the lilac hedge and the rambling roses. Off in the distance she could see that the rocky coast ablaze with color. Birds twittered in the trees, including several wrens that had recently taken up residence in the steadfast apple tree, while bees buzzed as they searched for nectar. In the distance, the church bells were ringing, informing everyone in Perros that today was a special day.

-0-0-0-

Though the sun was barely up, Mamma's new house was astir with activity. Several ladies had come from Perros and had taken over the kitchen, preparing a wedding supper for later in the day. Mme Lebeque was upstairs with Mamma, helping Christine get dressed, and Reynard was with Erik, assisting with _his_ preparations and offering some masculine company in a house full of women.

Mme Lebeque finished the final adjustments to ensure that the dress's fit was perfect, and was sewing the bodice fringe in place so that it accentuated Christine's figure to its fullest advantage. "There, what do you think?" she said to Mamma as she had Christine turn around so that they could both see the dress from all sides.

Mamma stepped back and wiped tears from her eyes. "It's…it's beautiful," she choked out.

"Are you all right, Mamma?" It troubled Christine to see Mamma overcome. "This is supposed to be a happy day, not a sad one."

Mamma sniffed and managed a smile that was part happy, part sad. _"Ja_, but of course I am all right."

"But you're crying." Christine rushed to her foster mother's side and put her arms around her.

"There would be something very wrong with your mother if she did _not _feel like crying," Mme Lebeque explained. "Her little girl has become a woman, and today she marries."

When they finished with the dress, Mme Lebeque brought out the veil. With Mamma's help, she set it atop Christine's head, and then finished it off with the orange blossom crown, the traditional symbol of bridal festivities. Christine looked at herself in the mirror and saw herself transformed into a vision of cream and white. "Is this really me? I…I look beautiful!"

The two older women laughed joyously. "But of course you look beautiful," Mme Lebeque said. "You are a bride, are you not?"

Christine looked around the room, then turned to Mamma. "I need my bouquet."

"Don't fret. I finished it up early this morning." Anna left the room and returned shortly with Christine's flowers. "I used the ones you chose."

"Oh, it's so beautiful!" Mme Lebeque exclaimed. "I would never have thought of using those. Is there a special reason for these particular blooms?"

"Yes. These red rosebuds in the center are a symbol of my undying love for Erik. Around them, I chose lavender for our devotion to one another, baby's breath for his gentleness, and everlastings because our love is eternal."

-0-0-0-

Erik fussed as he dressed. "When I let Christine talk me into a Breton wedding, I didn't realize that meant the whole village was coming," he muttered, more out of nervousness than anything else. He picked up his jacket, a smart-looking morning coat of deep claret, and allowed Reynard to help him put it on. The morning coat was set off by a black vest, dark gray trousers, and a neatly folded cravat, also dark gray. To finish the ensemble, there were pearl-colored gloves with black embroidery.

"Just pretend you're dressing for the opera," Reynard teased. He saw Erik's hands tremble slightly as he tried to adjust his cravat. "You're not nervous, are you? Here, you forgot this," he said, handing Erik the boutonniere that Christine had made – a single red rose bud with small sprigs of baby's breath and lavender, tied together with a bit of ribbon to match her bouquet.

Erik frowned as he looked at himself in the mirror. "Nervous? Me? Of course not. Why should I be nervous? I mean, it's only the entire village turning out for our nuptials. Whatever happened to the idea of a small, private affair?"

"Nothing at all, my good man, but it seems your bride has other ideas, and hers are the ones that have prevailed." Reynard chuckled. "You've already lost your freedom."

Erik paused thoughtfully for a moment before replying. "On the contrary; Christine has set me free. I believe I'm gaining more than I'm losing."

Reynard gave him a friendly slap on the back. "That's the spirit."

-0-0-0-

"It's almost time. Shouldn't we be getting ready to leave?" Christine asked Erik as they stood alone in the parlor. The rest of the household had stepped outside, giving them a few moments alone before they all left for the church.

"Alan's not here with the cart yet, and I have something I want to talk to you about." He eyed her appreciatively. "You look…ravishing."

She cocked an eyebrow his way. "Ravishing? Or good enough to ravish?"

He laughed. "Both. I wasn't sure I would care much for this Breton-style wedding of yours, but when I was told that it meant I wouldn't have to wait until the wedding to see you…." He stopped, and with his hands on her upper arms, pulled her closer so that he could kiss her.

She playfully pushed him back. "You may look, but not kiss."

"What?" He pretended to be offended. "What's this all about? First you torment me with your forward ways, and now, with the wedding all but upon us, you cause me further torture by withholding your favors."

She fussed with his cravat. "You've spent far too many years tormenting yourself. I've come to the decision that tormenting you is now my job. Besides, I don't want anything mussed up before the wedding. Now, what did you want to talk about?"

He hesitated, a sudden pang of self-consciousness coming over him. "About…this," he pointed to his mask. "If you wish…I will remove it for the ceremony."

His offer nearly overwhelmed her. "You would be willing to do this for me?" She understood his need to appear as normal as possible, and though he had made great strides in accepting himself and allowing others to accept him, she had no wish for Erik to be subjected to inadvertent murmurs or unwanted attention, especially not on this day. "Erik, I only ask that you not wear it in the privacy of our home. The rest is up to you. Do as you feel comfortable."

"Christine, you are everything to me. I would do anything for you, would walk through hell and back…," he paused, and then laughed quietly as the tension he had felt only moments ago melted away. "Oh wait, I already did that."

His small joke helped ease some of the pre-wedding jitters both were feeling at the moment.

"No, Erik; I will not ask this of you," she replied seriously. "I know and love your appearance. That is all I need."

-0-0-0-

It was time to leave for the church. In accordance with the local customs, Erik was to escort the wedding party. Alan Kerjean had offered to drive them to the church, and had pulled in front of the house, his cart decorated festively. Even the horse was dressed for the occasion, its mane and tail, as well the cart itself, decorated with ribbons and flowers. Blankets were draped over the seat, and pillows were also supplied so that neither bride nor groom would dirty their wedding finery. In the back of the cart were benches for the others to sit in, also covered with blankets.

"It looks fit for a princess," she cried in delight as Erik walked her to the vehicle and helped her up onto her seat. Then he took his place next to her.

Alan nodded to Erik as he sat down on the other end, Christine sitting daintily between the two men. "You brought plenty of coins, didn't you?"

"Yes, but I don't understand why."

Alan smiled. "Didn't Christine explain it to you? Ancient Breton customs. I'll tell you about them on our drive into Perros. You see, a Breton wedding is as much festival as it is religious, and is filled with our own particular traditions that date back many centuries. Some even consider them pagan, saying we are more closely related to the ancient Druids of Britain than to the people of France."

Erik shook his head slowly, trying to comprehend all that was happening around him. "I still don't understand why all of you are going to so much trouble for someone you barely know."

"You can't be serious," Alan said incredulously. "Why, you're a local hero, Erik. You fought off the madman who burned down Anna's house. These people have seen how hard you worked the night of the fire; have seen that you are not afraid to get your hands dirty working side-by-side with them. They know firsthand your generosity, not only towards Anna, but also in compensating them well for their labors. You've spent most of your time these past couple of weeks working with them, getting to know them, and they you. As far as they're concerned, you're one of us now."

Erik still could not believe it was as simple as that. "The...the mask doesn't bother them?"

"Why should it? It isn't the first mask they've seen." He paused, considering what to say next. "Some folks in town think you wear the mask because you were burned in the fire. Others, that you were injured in the war. Regardless, you are a hero to them, and they like you. Is that…all right with you?"

Erik smiled and responded quietly. "I rather like being thought of as a hero."

As they drove the road to Perros, they found along the route that the trees were decorated. All around there were brightly colored ribbons hanging from the branches, blowing gaily in the light spring breeze. Village children of all ages met them along the way. They were dressed in their Sunday best and ran alongside the cart, laughing, skipping, and singing. Erik could not resist their infectious good spirits and invited several of the younger ones up into the wedding cart to ride to the church with them. As they neared the outskirts of the village, they found more ribbons, this time crisscrossed between the trees on both sides of the road, blocking their way.

"What is this?" Erik asked.

One little girl with brown curls peaking out from under her white cap giggled and said, "Your bride must cut the ribbon."

"Oh dear," Christine said, her hands raised to her mouth in mock horror. "I don't have any scissors with me."

Erik looked at Alan and started to laugh. "Is this one of those Breton customs you were mentioning?" He stepped down from the cart and held a hand out to Christine.

"Do you suppose someone could loan me a pair of scissors?" Christine asked the little girl.

A young boy stepped forward. "You may use mine."

Erik helped Christine as she scampered down from the cart, her eyes sparkling with merriment. The children took her by her hands and led her to the barrier. There she made a point of accepting the pair of scissors with great seriousness and cut the ribbons with a flourish before returning them to their owner. "Now you must pay the lad for the use of his scissors," she whispered into Erik's ear.

"Is there anything else I should know about?" he asked playfully, reaching into his pocket and tossing a handful of coins to the crowd. Oohs and ahs greeted their ears as Erik helped Christine back to her seat.

"You'll see," Christine said demurely.

A few meters down the road, they found their way blocked again. This time the road was covered with briars. Alan looked at Erik. "You'll need some more of those coins. As the groom, you must pay to remove these obstacles."4

Erik cheerfully tossed another handful of coins at the children, and in no time, the road was free of further obstacles and the wedding party was once again on its way.

"I can't believe we're really here." Christine gasped with excitement, clutching Erik's arm. "Aren't you excited?"

They disembarked from the cart and walked to the doors of the church, its pink granite glowing in the mid-morning sun.

Erik looked up at the edifice. "Notre Dame de la Clarté," he said to no one in particular. He turned to Christine. "I remember the story you told me about the sailors being saved by the Virgin, and this church being built to honor that event. I never would have thought I would be getting married here."

"It's nice to know you were paying attention that day," she said with a grin.

Around the church, the villagers had gathered, dressed in their traditional garb. The men wore brightly colored waistcoats over white muslin shirts and voluminous _bragou-bras,_ or breeches, of blues and browns, held at the waist by wide leather belts with silver buckles and gathered at the knees with variously colored ribbons. White woolen stockings embroidered with clocks are worn under _sabot,_ their wooden shoes. In their hands, they carried the traditional cudgel, the _pen-bas,_ and on their heads were wide-brimmed black hats decorated with chenille fringe.

The women wore dark-colored dresses with full skirts and wide, white collars. Over their dresses, they wore plastrons, called _piéces,_ of the same shade as the dress, and shawls with fringed borders. The younger girls wore plain aprons, while their mothers' aprons, some made of silk and expensive brocades, were adorned with embroidery. Their hair was coiled into a coronet, on top of which was a cap of white lace.5

Children ran to join their parents. Greetings were called out. Heads bobbed. Words of _"Deit mat oh," _welcome, and, _"Bonjour deoh," _good morning, greeted Erik and Christine as made their way to the church.

As they approached the door, Christine whispered into his ear, "This is it, Erik. Step across that threshold and you've passed the point of no return."

* * *


	52. A New Beginning

This is the final chapter, but there will be an epilogue as soon as I get it written. I'd like to thank everyone who has been reading this story, and invite any "lurkers" to say hello. I have tried to give Erik and Christine the kind of wedding night they deserve. I wanted something sensual without going "over the top." I hope I hit it right. And for those of you who like long chapters, this one is more than twice as long as the typical chapters in this story, so…enjoy!

HDKingsbury  
November 21, 2006

PS -- Lizzy and I plan on writing some Variations Vignettes in the near future, some short stories featuring the secondary characters. They will probably have an M-rating, especially the one we're working on now that has to do with Anatole and Carlotta. Lots of fun, I can tell you that!

As always, thank you, ML, for your help with this story!

**­-0-0-0-**

**Chapter 49  
****A New Beginning**

As he walked down the aisle, Erik could hear the organist, a local resident who played with more enthusiasm than true talent, playing the processional hymn. He made his way nervously down the aisle, hoping he did not look skittish, telling himself that he was not putting himself on display, that he was going to marry the woman he loved. He concentrated on the golden radiance given off by the candles that were lit, and the fragrance of the flowers that decorated the interior of the church – roses, lavender and baby's breath, matching Christine's bouquet. Outside, the sun was high into the sky and its light was streaming in through the stained-glass windows, casting a multitude of colors on the walls and adding to the dreamlike quality of the place. Standing in front of the altar, he watched anxiously as the rest of the members of the wedding party entered the sanctuary.

Mme. Valérius, as the mother of the bride, took her place within the procession, while Anatole, who was taking the place of Christine's father, escorted her down the aisle. Among the guests sitting in the pews, Erik saw Carlotta beaming beatifically at Christine as she passed by.

-0-

Christine clung to Anatole's arm, barely able to keep her eyes off of Erik. He looked to handsome, so…desirable. Her heart was racing. Then she saw Carlotta sitting among the guests, and had to stifle a laugh. She whispered to Anatole, "You two really are an item, aren't you?"

"Trust me, Christine," he whispered back. "She's a changed woman, and we make beautiful music together."

"And what else do the two of you do together, hmm?" Christine whispered back, not really expecting an answer.

-0-

Reynard, as Erik's best man, took his place as the ceremony was about to begin. A slight movement towards the rear of the church caught his attention. To his amazement, he saw Justine Sorelli slip in and take a seat. He saw her look up and for a moment, their eyes met, and time seemed to stand still.

-0-0-0-

Christine joined Erik at the altar, and the priest began to recite the sacred words that would forever join them as husband and wife. Neither Erik nor Christine noticed the congregation, or anyone else. For the bride and groom, the interior of the church took on an almost mystical quality as the words of the mass floated around them, enveloped them, consecrated them in their spirituality.

The two of them had previously met with the priest to talk about the wedding, and during one of their discussions, Erik had made a request concerning their vows. When he explained what it was he wanted to say, the priest immediately agreed. And now the moment had arrived. The bride and groom joined hands. Christine spoke first.

"I, Christine, take you, Erik, to be my husband. I promise to be true to you in good times and in bad, in sickness and in health. I will love you and honor you all the days of my life. I pledge, in honesty and sincerity, to be for you an obedient and faithful wife." As she spoke, she smiled at Erik, her eyes bright and shiny.

Then it was Erik's turn. "I, Erik, take you, Christine, to be my wife. I pledge, in honesty and sincerity, to be for you an obedient and faithful husband." Then he pulled a piece of paper from his pocket. Carefully unfolding it, he cleared his throat, and began to read:

_When I knew only hatred, you showed me love.  
__When I knew only doubt, you taught me faith.  
__When I knew only despair, you gave me hope.  
__When I knew only darkness, you led me into the light.  
__When I knew only sadness, you brought me joy._

Then they exchanged rings. Christine gazed in wonder at her hand as she watched Erik place the ring they'd chosen on her finger. "With this ring I thee wed, and pledge thee my troth."

As the ceremony came to a close, a protective square of silk, the _carré_, was held over their heads as the bride and groom were blessed by the priest. According to tradition, they would save the cloth to wrap their children in when they were baptized. "May the Lord in His goodness strengthen your consent and fill you both with His blessings," he intoned. "What God has joined together, let no man put asunder."

-0-0-0-

After the ceremony, the bride and groom made their way out of the church, followed by the rest of the wedding party. Exiting the church, they were greeted by villagers who tossed almond _dragées_ and coins, ensuring their success and fertility. Erik looked down as something crunched under his feet, and he saw that they were walking on aromatic laurel leaves that had been strewn on the ground.

To the side, there were tables laid out with cakes. The bride and groom were instructed to each take a cake and leave a coin in its stead for the poor. The remainder of the guests followed suit, then Alan Kerjean announced that the festivities were about to begin, and invited all to the nearest meadow where there would be more food and dancing to the sound of fiddles and bagpipes.

As the gathering made its way to the revels, Reynard found his way to Justine's side. "How is it that you are here today?"

When she had come to Perros, Justine had not expected to see Reynard, but neither was she disappointed in doing so. "Christine invited me, but…I had no idea you would be here."

"Does it disappoint you…to see me again?" he asked.

"No, not at all."

Reynard held out his arm to her. "Then…may I escort you to the celebrations?"

-0-

At the meadow, more tables of food were set out, and there were blankets spread out on the ground. Musicians were standing by with their _old biniou_, _bombardes_, accordions, _violon_, the _treujenn-gaol_, and hurdy-gurdy, waiting to play. Two chairs specially decorated for the occasion awaited the newlywed couple. Alan had taken over as an informal master of ceremonies for the event, and announced that before the _ronds_ and other dances started, the musicians would play a waltz for the bride and groom.

While Erik and Christine danced, Carlotta pulled out a handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes. Anatole looked at her questioningly. "Why the tears?"

"It's a wedding, isn't it?" she answered. "And they make such a beautiful couple." She sniffed some more. "I always said that the man who married Christine Daaé would be the luckiest man on the face of the earth."

Anatole said nothing. It was better that way.

After the waltz, Alan proclaimed that all were to join hands for a _rond, _or circle dance. After demonstrating the steps for the sake of the newcomers, Alan instructed the musicians to play. The rest of the afternoon was spent dancing and singing. There were line and circle dances, the gavotte, the _an dro, hanter dro, laride_ and _dans plinn._

During one of the breaks, Christine went over to Justine. The two women hugged, and then talked.

"Christine, I…I was wondering. Did you know about Reynard and me?"

"Yes, he mentioned your name some time back."

Justine hugged her again. "You should have been a matchmaker, Christine."

Christine laughed. "Does your being here mean that you and Philippe are no longer seeing each other?"

Justine grinned. "I supposed you could say that. He wasn't too happy when I told him I was calling it off between us, but I'm sure he'll get over it. But I have so many questions for you. You must tell me about your husband, and you must introduce me to him! And how exactly did the two of you meet? I don't recall ever seeing him at the opera house."

Christine smiled mysteriously. "You might say he haunted the place where he lived."

"Haunted?" The dancer laughed. "Next you'll be telling me he was the Opera Ghost!"

-0-0-0-

The festivities continued throughout the afternoon with dancing and frolicking. Eventually, the wedding party retired to the brand new Valérius house, where the wedding supper had been prepared. Once everyone was seated at the dining room table, the local women who had prepared the meal brought out the Breton Marriage Soup and sang to the bride and groom. It was a sad ballad of their Breton ancestors that, as one of the women explained, "Is meant to make any bride of good stock weep with one eye and laugh with the other."

Erik looked down at his bowl of soup, which looked to him more like white sauce poured over thin slices of toasted bread. "May I ask what is in this?"

"Oh, Erik, don't be so afraid. Just open your mouth and eat it," Christine teased.

The women laughed at Erik's reluctance and explained, "The milk ensures that your life together will be pleasant, while the garlic warns you to always expect disappointments, that this is the way of life."

Erik swallowed a spoonful. "Well, I believe we've already had our share of disappointments, and I am certainly looking forward to a very pleasant life with my new wife."

Vintage bottles of the local Muscadet wine, a dry white wine that was perfect for the seafood dishes that were to come later, were brought out. Toasts of _santé_, or good health, were made to the bride and groom. Then the meal itself was served, a feast fit for royalty. There were creamed scallops served in their shell, lobster cooked in a garlicky tomato sauce, _cotriade Bretonn, _a soup-stew made with a mix of fish, and an assortment of crepes made of buckwheat flour and filled with sweet and savory ingredients.

The ladies stayed long enough to clean up after the supper, and then discreetly left, taking the remaining food to the rest of the folks still out celebrating at the meadow. The wedding party then adjourned to the parlor for some friendly conversation.

-0-

While the others were talking, Erik made a point of pulling Mamma off to the side. "I…I want to thank you for everything you've done."

Mamma blushed. "Nonsense. There's no need for that."

He hesitated for a moment, unsure how to say what he wanted to say. "I…I never had a chance to know my own mother, but I like to think that, had she lived, she would have been like you."

She blushed even more at the compliment, and then stood on her toes and gave him a motherly peck on the cheek. "Nothing pleases me more than having you as my son."

They talked a bit longer, when Erik heard Christine call his name. He smiled at Mamma. "I must rejoin our other guests. My wife calls. But, may I offer a word of advice?"

"And what would that be?"

"You might want to keep those socialist tracts hidden."

Mamma laughed heartily. "When you go to New York, you must look up my good friend, Herr Carl Schurz."

"Carl Schurz? Is he one of your revolutionary friends?"

"_Ja,_ and he has done quite well for himself," she explained. "He went to America after the '48 revolutions and he has held high offices. He recently retired from the presidential cabinet. He knows people in high places and can help you get settled in."

Erik nodded, impressed that Mamma knew such important people.

"We still correspond regularly," she continued. "I shall write a letter of introduction for you when the two of you decide to leave."

"I suspect," concluded Erik, "that you would have made a wonderful Mme LaFarge during the Reign of Terror."

Mamma laughed conspiratorially with her new son-in-law as the walked, arm in arm, to rejoin the others. The dinner party finally wound down with everyone departing and wishing the newlyweds good night.

"And where did you say you will be staying, Mamma?" Christine asked. "At the inn?"

"Pshaw! Of course not. M. Kerjean has invited me stay at his house."

"Mamma! A widow staying with a widower? With no one else in the house? Isn't that rather scandalous?"

"Now, now," Mamma chided her gently as she patted Christine's hand. "You know I don't always see eye to eye with society's silly rules. You take care of your husband. Besides, I'm an old woman. Who's going to care where I stay tonight."

"Just make sure he takes good care of you, Mamma."

"Don't worry, I will."

-0-

Before Anatole and Carlotta left, Erik had an aside with the baritone. "I wanted you to know how much I appreciate everything you've done – for Christine, and for me – and for making a new woman out of La Carlotta." He winked as he handed the other man an envelope.

"What's this?" asked Anatole, completely taken by surprise.

"A small token of my appreciation – two first class tickets to Seville for you and La Carlotta. I believe that is where she is from and where the two of you had planned on going before Fournier interrupted all our plans."

"Yes, but…how did you know?"

Erik cocked an eyebrow. "Haven't you heard? The Opera Ghost knows everything."

-0-0-0-

Goodbyes were said, everyone else had gone, and now Erik and Christine had the house to themselves.

"I have something for you, Erik – my wedding gift to you." She brought him a modest sized box, daintily wrapped in paper decorated with wedding bells and bound with a silk bow. Inside the box, he pushed aside the tissue paper and found another volume of poetry. "It is a companion volume to the one I gave you at Christmas," she explained.

Erik held the book tenderly. "Thank you," he finally managed to say. He opened the pages and found a bookmark. He turned to the page and found why it was marked. He read out loud.

_If ever two were one, then surely we.  
If ever man were loved by wife, then thee;  
If ever wife was happy in a man,  
Compare with me ye women if you can.  
I prize thy love more that whole mines of gold,  
Or all the riches that the East doth hold.  
My love is such that rivers cannot quench,  
Nor ought but love from thee give recompense.  
Thy love is such I can no way repay,  
The heavens reward thee manifold I pray.  
Then while we live, in love let's so persevere,  
That when we live no more, we may live ever._

"It's…it's beautiful, Christine. Thank you," he whispered, setting the box aside.

"No, wait," she said, "there's something else in the box."

Pulling back the tissue paper, he found a pair of hand-embroidered braces.

"I made them myself, so that you will always think of me when you put on your 'unmentionables'."

"I, too, have a wedding gift to present." Erik walked over to the mantle and brought back a jewel box that he handed to her.

Christine opened the box and found a diamond pin in the most unusual shape. She looked up at Erik and grinned mischievously. "It's lovely, but…why a grasshopper?"

He gave her a devilish look. "Because, my dear, when the grasshopper jumps, it jumps jolly high."

They embraced, and as Christine held Erik close to her, she said, "Are you nervous, Husband, about what comes next?"

Erik stroked her back, feeling the comfort of her body next to his. "Nervous? Of course not. Should I be?"

"I am." She paused. "Just a little."

He kissed her, long and deep. Then he whispered into her ear, "So am I…just a little."

-0-0-0-

Erik carried Christine up the stairs and into their bedroom. On the table in the room was a bucket of champagne, chilling in ice, and a pair of fluted glasses decorated with ribbons.

"Who thought of this?" Christine asked.

"I'm not sure. Do you suppose it could have been the wedding elves?"

Christine's brow furrowed in puzzlement. "Wedding elves?"

Erik shrugged. "They're probably Swedish. The Swedes seem to have an elf for just about every other occasion, so why not a wedding elf?"

Christine stifled a laugh as she rolled her eyes.

Erik took the bottle from the bucket and popped the cork, then poured them each a glass. "A toast," he said, holding his glass up.

"A toast," she agreed. "To our journey of discovery."

"You know," Erik said, "I've heard that a nice, warm bath does wonders for calming nerves."

Christine eyed him hungrily. "Then why don't you draw me a bath and I'll start getting out of this dress."

-0-0-0-

"Damn," he cursed quietly. Erik was all thumbs as he fumbled with the pearl-studded stickpin in his cravat. He watched as a drop of crimson beaded on the tip of his index finger where he had pricked himself trying to cap the pin. He put his finger in his mouth and sucked on it sullenly.

"Husband?" Christine called from the adjacent room. With the new house, the bathing room was now on the second floor, the same as the bedrooms. _Much more convenient,_ she thought to herself. Then she said aloud, "Would you come here please?"

A moment later, Erik knocked on the door and smiled as he heard her sing, "Come in."

"Wife," he said, dramatically. "I have come to do your bidding." He drew in a breath slowly as he took in the room where he and Christine would spend their first night together as a married couple. This was something he had so very long for, and now he wanted every moment of this night to last forever.

Vases of flowers had been brought from the church and placed around the room, which was fragrant with scents of roses and lavender. The setting sun colored the room with a warm, golden hue, giving it a surreal quality. Candles had been lit, their dancing shadows in the flickering light catching his eye as he memorized every detail.

Christine had taken off her veil and draped it atop the cheval mirror so that the lace cascaded to the floor. Her bouquet was in the center of the bed, amid a soft pile of pillows. The corner of the coverlet was turned down, making Erik's heart skip a beat. He had never seen anything more inviting in his life. He watched Christine as she pulled at the buttons on her gown. He leaned against the doorjamb and prayed silently that this memory would go with him beyond the grave.

"It's beautiful, isn't it?" she said, noticing his mesmerized state. She waved her hand around the room, pausing when she came to the bed.

"Yes. You are. I've never seen such beauty," he said sincerely.

She smiled nervously. "I…I'm trapped," she said, pointing to the long row of buttons on her gown. "Do your duty as my husband and help me out of this."

His eyes widened at the prospect, and in spite of his desire for her, he suddenly felt like running. He pulled out his handkerchief and dabbed his brow, pausing at the mask.

"Since we're alone now, would you take it off, please?" Christine whispered, her breast rising and falling quickly. "The mask, I mean."

"Is that why you called me?" he said, taking off the mask and setting it on the dresser.

"Actually, I need your help," she sighed. "I can't undo the buttons." She handed him a buttonhook and turned, pointing over her shoulder to a long row of tiny, closely spaced buttons.

Erik looked dumbly at the tool and blinked rapidly. "There's a faster way," he said, pretending to prepare to rip open her gown.

"Don't you dare. I want our daughters to wear this dress on their wedding day."

He looked blankly at her for a moment. "Daughters?"

"Yes. You know – offspring. To go with the sons we're going to have."

He fought back the tears that threatened to overflow. "Oh, Christine," he murmured, struggling for composure. "I…I never expected such happiness." He sat heavily on the bed and she wrapped her arms around him.

She kissed his face and lips, and whispered, "I feel it too, Erik. I feel that we have been blessed with the perfect friends, the perfect family, the perfect wedding day – and soon, the perfect wedding night." She giggled as she felt his arms tighten around her, his hands traveling down the length of her back and resting on her bottom as he leaned back onto the bed, pulling her with him.

"Not yet," she said primly. "May I remind you that you have a job to do first, husband."

"I haven't forgotten," he said. "But Christine, did you know that there are at least a hundred buttons back here? What sort of couture is this?"

She sat back up and pretended to pout. "It is torture, my darling, sheer torture, designed to drive us both out of our minds with lust by the time you've undone all one hundred and twenty of the buttons. You're a genius. You'll figure something out."

Erik applied himself to the job with vigor. "One," he announced as the first button gave way. He paused to kiss the nape of Christine's neck where a tiny glimpse of flesh had been exposed. "Two," he said, pausing again for his reward.

"Erik!" Christine gasped.

"What? You don't like my kisses?"

"The bath! I think the water is overflowing."

"First a fire, now a flood," he muttered as he went into the bathroom and turned off the taps. While he was there, he scented the water and lit more candles, placing them strategically around the room. Finally, he drew one perfect red rose from a vase and plucked the petals off, dropping them into the water. He took another rose with him back into the bedroom, where he was amused to see that Christine was contorting herself so that she could unhook some of the buttons.

"Damn," she cursed softly, believing herself to be alone in the room. "I have half a mind to tear this off. I can always replace the buttons later."

"That can be arranged," Erik chuckled. "Just a few more and you'll be able to raise the gown over your shoulders," he offered encouragingly.

"With your help," she reminded him.

"As I said before, I am here to do your bidding," he teased.

"Then I insist you to get this dress off of me," Christine said, striking a Carlotta-like pose. "I've been wearing it all day. With all the dancing we did, I can hardly wait to get out of it and get into the bath. At least I was able to remove my shoes all by myself," she teased, holding up her legs and wiggling her toes.

"This won't take long, my dear. Then, you can relax in your bath," Erik said, brushing the rose petals against her bare back. He smiled as she shivered when the petals kissed her skin.

"Speaking of the bath," Christine said seductively, "it's huge. That is the biggest bathtub I've ever seen. I fear I shall become lost in it."

"Can't have that," Erik muttered as he released a few more buttons. He had ordered a custom-made bathtub to accommodate his tall frame, but they both knew it was no accident that it was big enough for two, and that the faucets were in the middle for comfort.

"Would you mind scrubbing my back?" she asked innocently, batting her eyelashes at her husband.

"As my diva commands," he said, kissing her between her shoulders. "I am yours to order, and ever shall be." He stooped down and reached under the skirts, allowing his hands to brush against her ankles. He slowly moved his hands up as he stood, bringing the skirt with him. He paused to enjoy the view.

Christine stood expectantly with her arms in the air. "What are you waiting for?" she said.

"I'm memorizing the details," Erik said softly.

"You have a lifetime to do that," she laughed.

"This is the first time I've ever seen this freckle," he said, pausing to kiss a spot on her lower back. "I want to celebrate." The folds of the gown fell from his hands as he skimmed his palms along her hips and thighs, bringing them gradually to her front. He touched her the way a musician touches a fine instrument he's never played, exploring the finish, appreciating the warm glow of the materials, noticing each nuance of craftsmanship. His touch ignited her passion and she faced him, saying, "If only this dress weren't in the way…."

He knelt beside her again, and grasped the hem of the dress, lifting it easily over her head. He held it in one hand and pressed her against him with his other, kissing her tenderly.

"That's better," she sighed.

"It weighs a ton," Erik said, laying the gown across the foot of the bed. "How did you stand it?"

"All I could think throughout the day was how wonderful it was going to be when you helped me out of it," she said, smiling slyly.

"That was all you could think of?"

"Well…there were a few other things." She bit her lower lip, and pulled at his cravat. "Um…isn't this heavy, too?" With a gentle tug, she removed it and drew it through a tight circle formed by her closed left hand.

He raised his eyebrows and shrugged off his coat, laying it over her gown on the bed. He was so much taller than Christine that she had to reach up to remove the studs holding his shirt together, starting at the top. He stayed her hand when she reached the third one.

"Let me look at you," he said guilelessly, pushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear. He untied the laces of her petticoat and it fell in a pool of crinoline around her feet. She leaned into him as he loosened her corset, and when he gently pushed the pantaloons over her hips, a tiny moan escaped her. He slowly released the ribbons holding up her stockings, and she stood before him, like an unwrapped present. He held her hands and stepped back, gazing at her adoringly.

Silently, she watched as his eyes wandered over her hair, slowly taking in the curls and waves and the location of pins holding it in place. Her ears burned as he noticed her earrings and inhaled her perfume. Her body felt as though it were on fire as he slowly charted each part of her body, at first memorizing the way she looked, and then, the way she felt. She could see that he was completely enthralled by her, and the realization was empowering. She never felt vulnerable, undressed as she was before him. Quite the opposite, she felt strong.

His hands skimmed the surface of her body like a gentle breeze. She leaned into his touch, craving the feel of him, his warmth. Her lips parted expectantly, but he surprised her by picking her up in his strong arms and carrying her to her bath. He slowly lowered her into the water, and he smiled as she reached for him and tried to coax him into the tub with her.

"You were the one who taught me how good it feels to have one's back washed," he said softly. "Let me do this for you." He rolled up his sleeves and dipped the sponge in the water, soaping it with languid circles as though he had nothing else to do tonight or any other night. Christine wished he were touching her the way he touched the sponge, so she closed her eyes and leaned forward.

He had never touched a woman like this, had never even imagined being allowed to do so, yet here was Christine, his living bride, sighing and moaning, making the most exquisite sounds, inviting him to touch her in all her secret places. He tried not to think ahead, to what would happen later. He wanted this night to last. More than anything else, he wanted it to be perfect for Christine. He knelt behind her on the marble floor, finally brought out of his reverie when Christine guided his hands. He leaned closer to her, and she rested her head on his shoulder as she silently encouraged him to touch her, to explore her hidden treasure.

She pushed his hand below the surface of the water, and he luxuriated in the curve of her belly, covering it entirely with the palm of one hand while he continued to cradle Christine's breasts with the other. She reached up suddenly, warm water dripping down her arm, and caressed his face. "I love you, Erik," she whispered. She could feel him smiling, so she proceeded boldly. "If only…." Her voice trailed away.

_This is it, _he thought. _She has finally realized what a mistake she has made in marrying me, and she is about to ask me to go. _

She turned so she could see his beautiful eyes. "I would be the happiest woman on Earth, if only you would get in here with me," she said, popping open his waistcoat. She placed her hands against his shirt, delighting with the way the wet fabric stuck to him, revealing his hardened muscles.

He sighed with relief. He reached up and extinguished the flames of several candles quickly with his bare hand, the water from Christine's bath hissing against the hot wick.

"What are you doing?" she asked, surprised, when he stood up to extinguish more candles.

"It's bright in here," he said, more of question than a statement.

She knew the true reason for his hesitation. "Don't be modest, Erik. I've seen you unclothed before; in fact, several times."

"I was _unconscious_," he said testily, blowing out a whole slew of candles. "This is different."

She considered her response as Erik wrapped his arms around himself and sat on the edge of the tub, hunched over like a small boy. "Then blow them all out if it makes you feel better," she said gently. "But you should know by now that I _like _the way you look."

His eyes narrowed as he considered her words, a look she found absolutely devastating.

"You are magnificent," she said calmly, resting her head on his thigh and wrapping her wet arms around his hips, "and I am aching to feel you against me."

He mustered all his courage to make it right for Christine. "Turn around," he said, motioning with his fingers.

"No fair," she groaned. She reclined in the tub and placed a hand over her eyes, opening her fingers so she could peek just the same. His clothes came off rapidly, an astonishing feat of legerdemain only Erik could accomplish. The light from the one remaining candle reflected off his pale skin, making him seem to glow in the darkness. She whistled at the sight of him.

"Madame duBois!" he scolded playfully, shaking a finger at her as he settled into the water at the opposite end of the tub.

She waited, biding her time as he allowed himself to relax. She stretched out a leg and let her foot find his lap, using her toes to chart the waters. He gasped when she ran aground in an ideal location.

"Husband," she murmured appreciatively.

He held her foot and regarded it like an old friend. He lathered it with soap, and rinsed it with droplets of warm water squeezed from the sponge. Then, before she knew what was happening, he began to kiss it, taking each toe into his mouth and suckling gently. He kissed her feet and legs, paying extra attention to the spot behind her knee that made her squirm, and soon he was nearly covering her with his own body. She could feel him pressing against her as he continued kissing her body.

She ran her hands across his back, shivering with his kisses, and pulling him closer to her. He moaned and shifted his weight so that he was lying on his side next to her. She turned to him as she kissed him deeply, raising her leg – and realized that he was poised to enter her.

_This is what I've longed for, _she thought. _I want to remember every moment of it._

He stood and slipped out of the tub, lifting her as though she were an irreplaceable gift. He carried her into the bedroom, and with a glance at their wedding clothes, he laid her in the bed and brushed away rose petals that clung to her moist skin. His earlier modesty had vanished, and he exuded confidence and sexuality once again.

He lay down next to her, turning on his side to face her. Gently, his voice barely a whisper, he said, "Earlier, when you said I was about to pass the point of no return…"

"Yes?"

"…you were wrong. This is the true point of no return, my love. After this, we'll be joined forever in a way that can never be denied. Think carefully, Christine. If you wish to go no further, I will understand. I will be forever grateful for what you've given me today."

Tears spilled down her cheeks. "Oh, Erik," she cried, kissing his face as she spoke. "You dear, sweet, silly, stupid man! I passed the point of no return the first time you kissed me! I've been dreaming of this night ever since. Let's not waste another moment."

-0-0-0-

She climbed over him, trying to position herself so that he couldn't refuse her, and pressed her gates against him. His body responded instinctively at the touch of her body. He thrust against an unyielding band of tissue as she pressed downwards against him.

"Is that it?" she asked.

He smiled, knowing he had not even begun to penetrate her. "I don't think so," he said. He shifted his hips, and her body yielded slightly, holding onto virginity like a sacred trust. He had read enough to know that this first time – for both of them – might be a challenge. "I have an idea," he said, sitting up.

"I remember this," Christine said, giggling, "only one of us was fully clothed."

He touched her as he had that other time, and she thrust her hips instinctively against his fingers. He felt her maidenhead stretching as he entered a fraction of an inch at a time. His intellectual curiosity was almost as aroused as his need for her, as he approached their situation creatively. "I don't want to hurt you," he murmured into her hair, which had fallen loosely around her shoulders.

"You won't," she reassured him breathlessly, pushing herself onto him slowly. "I want you. I want to be one with you. I want you all the way inside me."

He gulped, knowing how much farther there was to go before her wish was granted, but it felt incredibly good—so much better than he imagined in his wildest dreams—to finally be joining with his wife. He felt her give way and he pressed against her, unable to go any further.

"You're…you're not there?" Christine asked, looking at him in surprise.

He winced to see pain in her eyes, and began to push her hips up, pushing her away from him, but she clung to him.

"Don't stop, Erik. I don't want you to stop."

He gauged her response, trying to be sure she was all right. Her skin felt like fire against his, and her pulse pounded all around him. "What if…" he said, struggling to find his voice, "…what if I am the wrong size for you?"

"Like a shoe?"

"Sort of," he laughed, putting his head against her shoulder. _Oh, God, _he thought. _She is so close to my lips…_

He began to nuzzle her. When she sighed and pushed against him again, he traced her breasts with his tongue, and felt her open a little more for him. He rolled over, holding Christine tightly to him. With her underneath him, he knew that he could force himself into her with relatively little effort. The trick was to make it right for her.

"This has to work," she said, biting her lip. "It _has_ to." She laughed lightly, realizing his dilemma. "You poor darling," she said, kissing his earlobe.

"Oh, Christine," he moaned desperately. He fought to hold back the rush that nearly overwhelmed him as she cupped his buttocks and pulled him even further into herself.

"What is it?" she asked worriedly.

"Don't move a muscle," he said through clenched teeth.

"Am I hurting you?"

"No," he managed to squeak out. "It's just that…you feel absolutely wonderful…"

Hearing that, and recognizing the need in his voice, she relaxed even more, and thrust again—shifting her hips maddeningly.

The last barrier finally gave way, and he eased all the way inside her. "Are you all right?" he asked, trembling as his body yearned for release.

"I'm fine," she said, wiping away tears. "Erik, I am yours forever."

He brought her small hand to his lips and kissed her knuckles, then her palm. "I love you," he whispered.

She caressed his cheek and nodded, unable to speak.

He waited, giving them both time to adjust to the sensation that threatened to carry them away, before he lifted her up and redistributed his weight so she could breath easier. She was tiny in comparison to him; yet as she held him, she was the most powerful person in the world.

"Make love to me, Erik," she murmured, stroking his back. "Make me sing."

Slowly, he combed his fingers through her hair and traced the outline of her ear with a fingertip. He kissed her throat, then her lips, and murmured musically, so softly that she could barely hear.

Somehow, she understood everything he said. He spoke of the way she had answered the secret prayers of his heart, of how she had given him a better life, and of how he had been a ruin of a man before she made him whole. His words elicited not only her empathy, but also a passion she had never felt before. A white-hot desire welled up inside her, and she sensed that he was straining to withhold his own release, waiting for her to come first. If only she could tell him…but she had no words for what was happening.

"Don't stop," she gasped, before her body did as nature intended. He felt her shudder before she was aware of what was happening to her, and he came with her like water overflowing a dam. He poured into her with wave after wave of sheer pleasure, delighting in her murmurs of happiness.

When he could speak, he thanked her over and over again for becoming his wife, for sharing this moment with him. She held him tightly and protested when he tried to move to the side, so he braced himself on his elbows and stayed there as long as possible. He retrieved a warm washcloth and a towel for her, and cleaned her before returning to the bathroom and cleaning himself. He returned to their marriage bower, feeling more relaxed than he had ever felt before – but also feeling terribly guilty for having hurt her.

"What's wrong?" she asked, worried that he was slipping into one of his black moods.

"I'm sorry I hurt you," he said, holding her close.

"I'm not complaining," she laughed.

"There was blood on the washcloth," he said, unable to look her in the eye.

"That's to be expected," she said, waving her hand dismissively.

"I know. But it doesn't make me feel less responsible for hurting you."

"You didn't hurt me," she said. "In fact, if you want to know the truth, I was wondering…"

"What? What were you wondering?" he prompted.

"When we can make love again," she said, reaching down to touch him. "Need I have asked?" she joked.

"Shouldn't you…shouldn't you have time to recover?"

"I used to walk the length and breadth of Sweden, and later Brittany, with my father, Husband. I have tremendous stamina," she said. "Of course, if _you _need to rest, I can wait – a little while."

"I appreciate your consideration for this old man, Wife," he replied, "but you may soon discover why I married you while you are still young."

Her eyes drifted down, and she realized that Erik had also completely recovered from their first attempt at making love. In fact, if possible, he looked more eager. "I'll do my best to keep up with you," she promised, tossing her hair over her shoulder.

"Now that I have some notion of what to expect, I have a few ideas…," he whispered, as he reached for the bottle of almond oil he had brought from the bathroom.

-0-0-0-

Much later, they lay together, their bodies entwined, defenseless and silent. Erik paused, reflecting. "It really doesn't bother you in the least to look at it," he said with a touch of wonder in his voice. He looked at Christine and saw that she was puzzled. "My face, that is."

Christine, relaxing against him, responded, "When I look at you, I see a knight in shining armor on a fine white steed, strong and honorable.

Erik chuckled. "When I look at you, I...well, my thoughts aren't entirely honorable, Madame duBois."

She became playful. "Is that so? Perhaps, you could, well, show me what you're thinking of?"

-0-0-0-

**Author's Notes:**

If you're interested in recipes, here's one for **Breton Marriage Soup**. Serve it hot for 2 after a wedding – or to 4 for a snack or warming lunch. It's a good, filling, and spicy meal.

1 nut of butter  
1 big onion, peeled and sliced very thinly  
1 clove garlic, peeled and sliced very thinly  
1 quart of milk  
salt (preferably _sel de mer_, with its tang of the sea)  
white pepper  
stale (or toasted) bread, sliced paper thin

In a good-sized frying pan, melt the butter and brown it – either on a wood fire or on the stove. Add the sliced onions and cook them till browned. Add the garlic and stir until all is well browned. Pour in the milk, salt, and pepper. Bring to a boil, and then reduce heat and cook, simmering, to a turn – about 5-10 minutes. Pour over very thin slices of bread and serve – either to the newlyweds or to your own family.

-0-

As for those Breton instruments, the _old biniou, _alsoknown as the _biniou kozh_, it is a bagpipe that is smaller than the Highland bagpipe and is often used to accompany the _bombarde_. The two performers play alternate lines that intersect at the end. The _bombarde_ or _bombard_ is a Breton oboe, with 6 open holes and a 7th that can be closed with a single key. It has been around since the 15th century. The _violon_, as the name sounds, can mean either a fiddle or a violin. The _violon_ has been played in Brittany since at least the 17th century. _Treujenn-gaol _is a Breton clarinet. The name literally translates as _cabbage stalk._ For those of you with musical inclinations, the Breton clarinet usually has only 13 keys, and sometimes as few as 6. This is in contrast to the common 24 key instrument used in jazz, classical music, and other fields.

-0-

Erik's poem to Christine during their vows is a reworking of a prayer by St. Francis of Assisi. When I came across another variation of it in one of my books on herbals and weddings, I thought it perfect for this occasion. As for the poem that Christine marked in the book she gave Erik, it is called _To My Dear and Loving Husband_, by Anne Bradstreet.

And finally, some of you who know your American history may recognize the name of Carl Schurz. He is one of my favorite "Red 48ers," and I could not resist the urge to include him as one of Mamma's "revolutionary" colleagues. If you'd like to learn more about Carl Schurz, just Google him.


	53. Epilogue

Well, we've finally reached it -- the end of this story. A big thank you to everyone who has read this, and an extra thanks to those of you who took the time to review. It's always fun checking my email and finding review waiting! Of course, the email alerts aren't going out lately. Oh well...!

And yes, there will be more stories down the road...

HDKingsbury

* * *

**Variations on a Theme of Leroux  
****Epilogue**

It was just past noon, and Erik and Christine were having lunch. It was a warm June day, and they had the house to themselves for a few hours, as Mamma was paying a visit to Alan. It seemed that she and M Kerjean had become quite friendly of late.

"I went down to the post office earlier this morning, and look what was waiting for us." She handed him an unopened envelope.

He looked at it, and saw Justine Sorelli's return address in the corner. He returned it to Christine. "Go ahead. Open it," he urged her. "She is, after all, your friend."

"But, it's addressed to M. & Mme duBois." She gave him a smug look. "You, as the man of the house, are properly in charge of such important things as mail."

Erik snorted a laugh. "Oh! So you trust me to open a letter, but not to go to market alone."

"That's because you don't know how to shop for the bargains. You always pay too much for things."

Erik opened the envelope and read the enclosed letter. He smirked, deliberately saying nothing to Christine as he folded the letter back up and stuck it in his pocket. The impish look still on his face, he picked up his newspaper and resumed his reading.

"Well?" Christine demanded. "What does it say? You know I'm dying with curiosity!"

Erik looked up, peering over the top of the newspaper. "I'm sorry. Did you say something?"

"Silly man, of course I said something. What did the letter say?"

"Letter? What letter? Oh…_that _letter. Ouch!" he yelped when Christine kicked him in the shin. He pulled the letter out and handed it back to her.

"Oh, did you see this?" she cried out excitedly.

"Of course I saw it," he muttered under his breath.

"You're just trying to irritate me, Erik."

"That's because you're so…inviting when you're irritated," he replied suggestively.

"Maybe later."

"Promise?" He waggled his eyebrows at her.

She pretended to ignore his remark. "It's an invitation! Reynard and Justine are getting married next month! Oh, Erik, this is wonderful. After they marry, they plan to retire to the village of Louveciennes."

"Yes, I know," Erik said drolly.

"Yes, I know you know," she mimicked. "You read the letter and weren't going to tell me what it said." She scanned it again. "Where is Louveciennes?"

"It's one of the western suburbs of Paris. It's favored by many of the Impressionist School of painters," Erik replied.

Christine started thinking about a wedding gift and added, "I do hope that Anatole and Carlotta will be there."

"Must we include Carlotta?"

"She's a changed woman, you know. Anatole says so."

"If you say so." Erik set the newspaper aside. "Now, about that promise…"

"In the middle of the afternoon?"

"Mamma will be gone for a while, and the dishes can wait."

"That's true. And you know as well as I do that she would be thrilled to know we're…"

"Shh! Don't say it! I don't want her to know I'm defiling her little girl. At least, not while I'm defiling her."

"I was about to say, before I was rudely interrupted, that she would be thrilled to know that we're working on her first grandchild."

"Is that what we're doing?"

She got up from the table and held her hand out to him. As they walked up to the bedroom, she leaned over and kissed him tenderly. "You're going to be a wonderful father."

"Are you trying to tell me something?"

-0-0-0-

It was a week before the wedding. Anatole and Carlotta had come to Perros to visit with Erik and Christine before the four of them would head to Paris for the nuptials. Anatole in particular wanted to thank Erik for the wonderful present of the tickets to Seville as well as the completely unexpected extra gift in the envelope – a brilliant diamond of the first water.

The two singers chose once gain to stay at the Inn of the Setting Sun because it had such enjoyable memories for the two of them. That evening they were awaiting the arrival of Erik and Christine. As they were early, they went down to the public room for a bite to eat and something to drink. After a few drinks of the local vintage, Anatole began regaling Carlotta with the story of how he fought off Fournier, Gaultier, and a horde of other villains.

"I was completely surrounded!" he said, spreading his arms wide for emphasis. "There were four, no wait, make that five! Yes, that was it, there were six ruffians crawling all over me. There was much gnashing of teeth and flying of fists!" He shadowboxed to demonstrate his form. "I won't lie to you. I thought I had breathed my last."

"Oh, Anatole!" cooed Carlotta, running her hands through his hair and across his broad, solid shoulders. "You're so brave!" She leaned over and kissed him. "How ever did you manage to free yourself?"

"Why, I…," he started to say.

"Yes," another voice joined in. Anatole looked and saw Erik suddenly reveal that he had been sitting in the corner all the while. "Tell us all about it."

"Ah...um...Erik! Fancy seeing you here! Where's that pretty little wife of yours?" Anatole sputtered as his face turned a brilliant shade of scarlet.

"Over here, Anatole," Christine replied coolly. "Waiting for you…with Mamma and M. Kerjean."

Alan leaned forward slightly, tipping his head.

"Are you sure it was only six?" Dr. Bret added, rising so that Anatole could see him as well.

-0-0-0-

Reynard and Justine were married in the_ Cathédrale de Notre-Dame de Paris_. When asked how he managed to pull such a feat off, Reynard simply shrugged his shoulders like a true Parisian and explained that he still had friends who could pull a few strings.

The reception was held at the _Le Café Anglais, _which Reynard and Justine rented for the evening. An extensive feast was ordered – soufflés with creamed chicken _à la reine_, Venetian _fillets of sole_, escalloped turbot, chicken _à la portugaise_ cooked with tomatoes, onions, and garlic, lobster _à la parisienne_ ducklings _à la rouennaise_ ortolans on toast, and an assortment of different wines.

During the reception, the latest Paris gossip was discussed. These days, the topic of conversation was the exposé being run in one of the local papers, detailing the deplorable conditions among the institutions that were supposed to be helping the ill. One place was singled out as being particularly vile, the sanitarium of a man named Delacroix. According to the reporter, a young man by the name of Leroux, there was evidence that some of the inmates had been kept in small cells, chained and beaten like wild animals. The government, in turn, was looking into the matter, as well as the unhappy families of those poor, unfortunate patients. Charges were expected to be laid against Delacroix, and soon.

"That story is a scathing indictment of the treatment the poor, underprivileged people receive at such places," remarked one of the dinner guests. "Just because one is mentally deficient does not mean one should be treated so despicably."

"Erik," Christine said quietly as she daintily picked at her escalloped turbot, "do you hear what they are talking about?" She knew he did; she could tell by the look on his face and the stiffness of his posture. At last, though, he smiled, and Christine was relieved to see him relax.

"It sounds as though Reynard's reporter friend has done his job," he said, "exposing Delacroix and his cronies for the scoundrels that they are." He picked up his wine glass and took a sip.

"Well, good riddance, I say," Christine responded, likewise picking up her glass and clinking it against Erik's.

"Yes," he nodded. "Good riddance."

Although he continued to feel awkward among strangers, and there were still those who made covert glances at his masked face, Erik managed to tolerate the situation with his usual grace and aplomb. After all, he told himself, it wasn't as if everyone was an unfamiliar person. Reynard and the beautiful Justine were there, of course, as well as Anatole and Carlotta. And, naturally, Christine. Who cared what he looked like when there was Christine to hold their attention?

"It's wonderful of you to put up with all these people, Husband," she whispered in his ear later, when they were dancing.

"I think I am handling it all quite well, Wife." He beamed at her. He still could not believe the feelings of intense joy that came over him every time she called him "husband."

"Yes, you are, and for that you shall be properly rewarded."

"In that case, may we leave now and get an early start?"

She winked at him. "When I get you home, Erik…I promise it will be worth the wait."

The party was in full swing when the door opened. Thinking it a late-arriving guest, Reynard and Justine looked up to see Comte Philippe enter the room. He smiled pleasantly and tipped his hat. "I happened to be in the neighborhood and thought I should stop by to offer my felicitations to the happy couple." He bowed to them. The air grew thick with tension, but it dissipated somewhat when Philippe offered his hand to Reynard and said, "Justine could do worse than to marry you."

"Thank you," the former detective replied rather stiffly. Reynard d'Aubert would much rather have been giving the obnoxious Comte the boot instead of shaking his hand.

"Yes, thank you, Philippe," Justine said more warmly, and offered her hand.

Philippe, regardless of whatever his feelings might have been at that moment, took her hand and kissed it gently, the picture of graceful manners. "I've no wish to wear out my welcome," he added jollily, suggesting that he was about to leave, when he turned around and saw Christine. They had never actually met before, but he knew her from her appearances on stage, and the fact that his halfwit of a brother had been utterly besotted with her.

"You…know her?" Justine asked tentatively.

"Know her? But of course! Doesn't everyone know 'The New Marguerite'? Might I intrude upon you to introduce us?"

Justine took Philippe to be introduced to Christine and Erik, with Reynard trailing closely behind. She explained that the two were only recently married and that Christine had, for that reason, retired from the stage. At least for now.

"My felicitations to the two of you as well, Madame, Monsieur, on your recent marriage," Philippe said formally.

"Thank you, _M. le Comte_," they both replied, equally formal. The hairs on the back of her neck stood on end as Christine had no idea what Philippe was up to. The fact that this was Raoul's brother did nothing to calm her. She reached for Erik's hand and was comforted when he squeezed it reassuringly. Unable to hold back her curiosity, she asked, "Will your brother be…er, joining us?"

Erik stood solemnly at her side, saying nothing but every bit as curious to hear what the Comte had to say as was his wife.

"Oh, you needn't worry about Raoul. He's long at sea." Philippe chuckled. "Perhaps another tour of duty will finally make a man out of him…but I doubt it." He turned to Erik and for a moment stared at the mask, an expression of curious boredom on his face. "Have we met before?" he finally asked.

"No," Erik replied curtly.

"A pity. I suspect you are a man of great acumen. You didn't, by any chance, visit my scapegrace brother one night the week before he shipped out, did you?"

Erik looked Philippe straight in the eye, and without batting a lash, simply said, "What reason might I have had do so?"

"Quite. I didn't think so. He had been getting these strange notions in his head of late, kept rambling on about being haunted by a ghost or something. Poppycock, I told him," he added. "Pure balderdash. Good thing you weren't there; in the frame of mind he'd been in, he'd have probably shot your head off."

Erik remained taciturn. "Yes. Good thing."

"Well then, I shall wish the bride and groom a good evening, and a long and fruitful marriage. _Bon soir."_ And, with a nod to the crowd, left the room.

"What do you suppose that was about?" Christine asked.

Justine could only shake her head in disbelief. "If I didn't know better, I would say he was sincere, that he wanted to let you know that Raoul would be troubling you no more," she said, trying to be polite about the whole affair.

Erik sighed. "One can only hope."

"If you ask me, he's nothing more than a boorish party crasher," Reynard said, his dissatisfaction with Philippe's actions extremely evident. Justine took his hand in hers, trying to calm her husband.

"It's obvious that he merely wanted to insult you." Erik suggested, nodding in agreement with Reynard. "He used the ruse of extending his good wishes to gloss over that fact. You were admirably restrained, for the sake of your lovely bride." He nodded and smiled at Justine, who returned the gesture.

"Well, whatever his reason, my Reynard was the model of decorum," Justine said, linking her arm through her husband's and leaning lovingly against his shoulder. "If ever I had a doubt that I'd made the right choice, you proved me correct tonight. You were the perfect gentleman." Then she leaned closer and whispered into his ear, "I can hardly wait to get you home and corrupt you."

The gaiety resumed immediately following the Comte's exiting the room, and the chamber orchestra struck up a waltz.

"May I have this dance, Mme duBois?" Erik asked, a smile once again upon his face.

"I would be delighted, M. duBois," Christine replied, taking Erik's hand.

As they twirled around the floor, Erik leaned scandalously close to his wife and whispered into her ear, "Now about that reward…"

_-- Finis --_

* * *

**My final notes, historical and otherwise:**

According to the official site, there are over 120 paintings by Renoir, Pissarro, Sisley, and Monet depicting Louveciennes.

Here's a little note about Paris in the 1860s and the _Café Anglais:_ "At its most dazzling, the tone of the city's social life was set by the court of the Second Empire. The repressive - though gradually liberalizing - regime of Napoleon III practiced a politics of festivity which masked the realities of power beneath a seemingly endless whirl of pleasures, all fully reported in the newspapers and illustrated press for vicarious consumption. The _tout_-Paris of the age took its cue from the court and pursued, on the surface at least, a hedonistic lifestyle. It paraded its wealth in afternoon carriage rides in the Bois de Boulogne, evenings at the opera or theater, and lavish dinners at the Café Anglais."

The dinner served at Reynard & Justine's reception is, in fact, the famed _Three Emperors Dinner_. "In 1867, Paris hosted a Universal Exposition – partly to show the British they too could do it – and the royals and important dignitaries of the world were invited, so that in the end, "Paris was bloated with Majesties and Highnesses". Three of the important majesties attended a dinner on this day at the Café Anglais (which sadly no longer exists): Tsar Alexander II, the Tsarevich (the future Alexander III), and Kaiser Wilhelm I of Prussia (accompanied by Prince Otto von Bismarck). The dinner was prepared by the famous Adolphe Dugléré, who had himself been a pupil of the legendary Carême, and the menu he prepared for 'The Dinner of the Three Emperors' demonstrates what can be done when the guests must be impressed, the country's honour is at stake, and no expense need be spared."

Hey! If it's good enough for three emperors, it's certainly good enough for my characters!


End file.
